Landslide

In 1990 I traded in a crappy used Ford Capri for brand new Geo Prizm. I annointed it "The Prizz." The Prizm was GM's version of a Toyota Corolla, made in Fremont at the NUMMI plant, a joint venture between Toyota and GM. During a particularly broke period in college, I worked at the NUMMI plant as a tour guide. For two days.

The Prizm was not a great car. I bought the cheapest stock version. It had crank windows and upholstery that looked pried off Motel 6 chairs. But I loved the Prizz: It was the first car I bought without consulting my father, a former mechanic whose collection of Chilton auto repair manuals occupied half our family room growing up. My dad believed in buying cars based on "torque," some sort of scientific force that I understood less than I understood his love of canned smoked oysters. Torque fell into the category of "what?"

(Quick side note: My dad once showed me how to jump start a dying battery, an issue with my first car, a 1969 Mustang. In clipping on the cables, I came in contact with a corroded post. "Dad, I think I have battery acid on my hand." "Great, now wipe it on your pants." I did and watched in horror as the acid burned holes in the fabric and he laughed hysterically. That was my Dad!)

Halo was my dog in the way the Prizz was my car. By any standards, she wasn't a great dog. But she was mine. True, she belonged to the whole family. And as Rocky pointed out many times, she loved him more, and not just because he fed her. But she had my traits: She was fearful, she had a need to be adored and she was just as likely to bite you as to lick you.

RIP, my little darling. I'm playing "Landslide" in your honor because I think we both know that neurotic chicks rule.