Right after a friend gave me a puppy for my birthday, my brother handed me a calling card of a psychiatrist -- a specialist for treating patients having difficulties in coping with the loss of a beloved pet.

He advised me rather sternly to keep the card because I might need it someday. However, I was too excited for having this puppy to be bothered by some grim prospect, but I kept the card anyway.

Another good friend, paid for the puppy's obedience training. However, two months into it, I had it stopped. He was becoming a little too disciplined; acting like a grown-up dog. Also, he seemed terrified by his trainer whom we suspected in jest of harboring Gestapo sentiments. After about a week of not seeing Hans the trainer, he began to enjoy his puppyhood once again.

Named Niko Burrito on his American Kennel papers, I took him along with me to work during the first three years of his life.

As he became more socially adept with people and other dogs, so did I -- we got invited to silly dog birthdays and other bizarre Manhattan private events for dogs. In the end, Niko seemed happiest when it was just the two of us strolling in Central Park.

He had his medical and periodontal check-ups on a regular basis. His veterinarian was rather grumpy and abrupt with people, but simply amazing with animals!

For his grooming needs, a gay couple who operated a pet salon in Chelsea took care of that. And if I were too busy to take Niko myself, for a fee, they would send a dog taxi to pick him up. My doorman would fetch Niko from my apartment and hand him over to the driver. I would then pick him up from the salon right after work. If the weather was good, we would walk home from Chelsea.

As for his apparel needs, he had ample supply of sweaters, raincoats, trendy collars, and rubber boots to protect his paws from the salt used to melt the snow. Almost all of these items were gifts, though. I would be too embarrassed to walk into one of New York’s specialty pet boutiques to rummage through doggy clothing and accessories.

Except for the sweaters, he hated the rest, especially the frivolous costumes he had to wear to doggy theme parties. It was always a  struggle to put those on him. Eventually, we managed to avoid attending those parties by hiding out at my brothers’ house in New Jersey during the weekends.

In return for all these, Niko showered me with unconditional love. He was the only one I ever lived with who easily forgave me for my shortcomings. Living with Niko also gave me the wisdom to never ask any single Manhattan female to choose between me and her pet dog.

Niko, at 17, died of heart ailment a month after 9/11. What a year that was.

Cocker spaniels usually have a lifespan of only 14 or 15 years, but thanks to his highly skillful but grouchy veterinarian he lived a longer and a healthy life. I never felt any need to call the psychiatrist on the card my brother gave me. I knew I took good care of Niko, like a parent would to his child. Also, we had lots of fun times together.

When the time is right, I’ll most probably get another puppy.