Schatze, a collie.
Her and I played "football". I would set her on the other side of the yard and throw a small, plastic football in her direction. She would snatch it in her teeth and come charging up to me and veer away at the last moment. I would try to tackle her. Next go-around I would set her up across the yard, keep the ball, throw it straight up and catch it. Then I'd run at her. She'd run between my legs and try to bring me down.
She was starting to escape her pen and run cattle at night with other dogs so my Father said she had to go. He gave her to a man living on the outside of our small town and he ultimately gave her to another man about 10 miles or so away.
About a year and a half later I walked out the back door to go to school and she was on our back porch. She had found her way home. She had some injuries from what looked like a scrape with a moving vehicle. My Mother came outside, saw Schatze, walked back inside and told my Father, "That dog stays here."
She lived about a year longer and then passed away as her injuries were worse than we thought.
I wait to see her again and we can play more "football".