I first met Luke ten years ago on a hot, still late June day in 2006.

“Hi, Peter,” Lisa, my future wife, and her then 15-year-old daughter called as my guide dog Jules and I stepped out of the van that we had ridden in from the St. Louis airport.

Luke growled.

Lisa had told me about how Luke, then a four-year-old standard poodle, had sailed over a six-foot fence to terrorize cats and patrol the neighborhood.

“Hi Luke, you vicious dog,” I called. He growled more loudly as Jules stood by my side gently wagging his tail. “And hi, guys.”

During the balance of my stay, the dogs vied for dominance. Jules submitted — grudgingly.

But they became allies when I moved to Columbia permanently several months later. During the next couple of years, Luke encouraged Jules to forage in our trash can, and Jules educated Luke about the joys of the guide dog harness.

A year after moving to Columbia, Lisa and I got married in our backyard. During the reception, Luke somehow escaped from our house. With a beer in my hand and my butt in a chair, I was finally able to relax enough to absorb some of the post-wedding compliments—

“Luke just ate the musician’s plate of food while he was singing,” a cousin reported.

Wedding guests loved our back yard, the flowers, the furniture, the tent—

“Luke is peeing on all the rented plants,” Lisa told me in a voice of amused horror.

People raved about the food—

“That horrible black dog just stole a cracker from a child’s hand,” Mom told us.

After the honeymoon, Lisa and I settled into marriage life raising three kids and engaging in a variety of activities. Luke maintained his independence, jumping over our six-foot backyard fence to patrol the neighborhood, often returning with snow, hale, burrs, twigs, and/or duck feathers in his fur. His insistent bark would wake me up in the middle of the night so that I could either let him outside or inside.

Luke played an increasingly important part in our family. He prevented several fights between my two stepsons, first by nipping one son on his butt and then barking or glaring at them when a fight seemed eminent. He deliberately sat statue-like in my path whenever he wanted me to pat him. And he spent many hours on the bed with Lisa to comfort her during health-related painful episodes.

In 2012, Heath became my new guide dog. Shortly after we came home after ten days training at guide dog school, he barked his shrill “I-want-something” bark.

“Is he crazy?” Lisa asked. “He wants Luke’s bone.”

Heath barked again. “What’s Luke doing?” I asked.

“Ignoring him,” Lisa said, laughing.

And Heath never barked that way at Luke again.

Over time, Luke, Heath, and Hunter, a tuxedo poodle puppy, fell into a routine. The two younger dogs always let Luke lead the pack going outside to our fenced-in back yard or inside the house, and didn’t complain too much if Luke received human attention before they did. Otherwise, they ignored his vocal attempts to control them.

A year ago, Lisa and I took Luke to the vet. He seemed to be slowing down: only jumping the fence two or three days a week instead of every day.

“Well, he definitely has a heart problem,” the vet told us. “If he becomes exercise intolerant, bring him back.”

“Exercise intolerant?” Lisa and I laughed. “Luke will die suddenly from a heart attack in the middle of a strenuous activity.”

About a week ago, Luke died of a sudden heart attack inside of our house at the top of a set of stairs. He was nearly fifteen years old.

Luke was cool. Always regal. Contemptuous of dog toys and other pedestrian things. Aware of his surroundings. The only dog who would consistently come when I called him — except when he was on neighborhood patrol. Incredibly loyal and empathic, especially when Lisa was in pain.

Everyone who has lived around dogs speaks of a “spirit dog” — a dog who bonds to them especially closely. Heidi, a weimaraner and my first guide dog, was my spirit dog. Luke was Lisa’s.

RIP, Luke M. Poodle.