The news services reminded me that the Deity that was Princess Diana died six years ago today. I remember her more for her passive aggressiveness, such as eating disorders and acting like she'd been beaten by Prince Charles when no such thing occurred. I remember she had had a falling out with Elton John, and he didn't know why, until all of a sudden there's a new version of "Candle In the Wind." Today's headlines are along the lines of "...Where were you when..." and/or "Remembering the People's Princess".

I was living in Lakewood, Colorado. I lived in a mega apartment complex, one of many in suburban Denver, this one on your way toward Golden, and built from the city's go go 1970s, with party facilities, swimming pool, gym, tennis courts. It had the appearance of catering to disco-era swinging singles. But by the time I lived there it was, uh, clinging to respectibility with a fair number of overworked DINKS and families trying to hang onto the American Dream in the inflationary Colorado of the 1990s. It was one of the few places I could find that would accept dogs.

My dogs Grace and Picasso were quite a couple, black lab mixes with matching silky black coats. Every day we would go on walks in a park on a sloping hill adjoining the apartment complex. At its top-most point, you got an awesome view of the Denver skyline contrasted with the squat buildings of corporate Lakewood close by; on a clear day you could see the Eastern Plains and just make out the teepee hats of DIA. Behind you was Green Mountain, another favorite open space. From its crest you got an unobstructed view of both the metro region and the teeth of the front range.

Although smaller of the two, Grace, the alpha female, always led the way on our walks. Picasso (and I) either were tugged impatiently along or cheerfully followed. From a distance you could spot their matching tales bobbing along -- where Grace lunged to sniff something interesting, Picasso would copy a moment later.

On August 30, 1997, we stopped at the apartment's dog-pen, a chain link enclosure with signs like "Pick Up After Your Pet". When I let them out of the car, the dogs jumped out and ran ahead to wait eagerly by the entrance. There was a "air-lock pen" to the larger pen, and a woman and her dog were in there. My dogs started sniffing at them as they came out.

Before I could retrieve the dogs' leash, things escalated. The woman and her dog felt surrounded, and a fight ensued between her dog and my dogs -- mostly it was Grace, growling and lunging at the dog's neck. There was a moment of frantic barking, and the woman gasping "Oh my god Oh my God!" Picasso, a big cluck of a dog, stayed out of it mostly, retreated with eyes rolling. Although I know how it is to have dogs coming at you, honestly there was nothing to panic about, but I apologized profusely to the woman and asked if she was OK, but she was definitely freaked. "This doesn't usually happen. My dogs are good dogs." I know I asked if she was OK a few times, and she said she was, she definitely said she was.

As I yanked them back and into the car (no run in the pen today!) there, buzzing up with prim efficiency, was a representative of the apartment (bolt upright from a pole up her ass I'm sure) on a little corporate golf cart designed to charm prospective tenants around. She had seen the whole thing, she later claimed.

Of course I received a call a few minutes later. "Your dogs are out of control. You must have your dogs on a leash at all times. In addition, you are in violation of the lease to have more than one dog over 25 lbs in your apartment." The woman shrilled at me. I had my dogs on a leash, I explained, but I knew it was a losing argument. And check your paperwork, I was not in violation of the lease: You were well aware I had two dogs when I applied. No matter: The other woman was complaining she had been bitten. "You will have to get rid of your dog -- or move."

What to do? Although I was due in a few days to begin my job (and the start of my present so-called career) at The Publishing Company, I did not yet consider that secure employment: I had no money, no other job prospects, and, well, I guess I just didn't know what to do. Should I try to find another place? Should I keep the dogs locked in the apartment all day? It was already an hour's commute to my new job.

When the evening hit, solutions loomed cloudy, but none were positive. I forgot what I drank, probably a bottle of rum/short on the coke. It is not an easy sleep that comes when you're drunk. I had no furniture then and slept in a sleeping bag, a tiny black-and-white TV left on in the corner. As I slogged out of it, the news in the early morning began registering that something had happened in Paris. At first, beeping warnings ran across the foot of the screen, but then updates began breaking into the infomercials, and finally the news moved to continual coverage. Princess Diana had been involved in a horrific car accident in a Paris tunnel. Live views of the entrance of the tunnel or viewed from above in a helecopter, cordoned off with flashing lights. As this news unfolded, the dogs slept around me on the sleeping bag or behind me on their matching pillows. As the confirmation of her death came in, it showed repeated clips of her, speaking to landmine victims in the Balkans, AIDS victims in South Africa, or smiling (or grimacing) against a fireworks of flashbulbs before Event curtains or podiums. I didn't end up sleeping much, and when I could at last move, a sour stomach and head, I had to turn it off.

The morning was bright. Sick and aching, I loaded the dogs together into the car and drove them to a beautiful park in suburban Denver. Then after a couple of hours walking in the exhaust-smelling Denver air amid lawn sprinklers, or me sitting with them drinking coffee and eating doughnuts, we drove to the Dumb Friends League. Dumb Friends League was a non-profit devoted to getting pets adopted, and I was encouraged at the number of folks there so early -- hopefully looking for a dog. I'm sure I was a huge drama diva, wearing dark sunglasses as I brought the dogs in and waited while the receptionist took care of people ahead of me. I know I couldn't see and could barely talk as I sat there with the dogs patiently by me on their individual leashes, sniffing around. It was all very Sophie's Choice.

Until the last second, I wasn't absolutely certain what my decision would be, but I turned in Picasso. I wrote out a $100 check -- a lot of money for out-of-work me then -- and also donated his comfy pillow and handful of toys. (Grace was never into toys.) I helped put Picasso in his cage in the back, his tail wagging as he hopped in. "I'll leave you two alone for a second," said the worker. And I did pet him one last time inside the cage, his big thick head, his black rubbery snoot. I talked to him too, but I don't remember what I said. Probably pitifully pathetic things like "I'm sorry. This is the best thing for all of us. Be a Good Boy." He was fine until I began to leave. Then he panicked and began staccato barking. I could hear him as I staggered out of there with Grace.

The folks had asked me if Picasso had a "history". Absolutely not. He was a such a pleasant, friendly, if maybe not-too-smart, dog. He loved people, especially "little people". He was part chow -- a very handsome dog: He looked like a stocky, block-headed British Black Lab and definitely had the lab disposition. The chow part of him showed with a tail that curved over his back in a splay and felt like a feather, and a spotted black design on his tongue that reminded me of modern Art (and hence the origin of his name). Grace, on the other hand, did have a "history". She did not get along with other dogs, and she instigated some bad behavior like digging holes like a Prairie dog at the parsonage. She would have been "destroyed". Ironically, once it became a one-dog house, her personality vastly improved -- she became much better with other dogs. Perhaps her ill-behavior was a measure to protect Picasso. Whenever I see a photograph of Princess Diana, I remember giving up Picasso.

I like to think of Picasso being adopted by a family, a nice, middle-class Denver family. Maybe a loud cheery Mexican family with a million aunts and cousins, or a yuppie couple, or a working mom and her just-pre-teen kids. Maybe he was adopted by a college kid, one of those Boulder guys that likes to drive Jeep Wranglers and go off-roading in the high country, and would put bandanas around his neck and call him "Dude".