My parents had a walk-in closet that they had to stoop to walk into. My mother's dresseds and father's shirts filled the racks and Patrick and I would crawl underneath them, hiding. Our basement had walls of boulders and scared the living daylights out of me. As young as I can remember I would quote "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," every time I went downstairs to ward off the heebie jeebies as I called them.
Our puppy was a fluffy black with a white star in the middle of her chest. We called her Midnight. I don't remember the time that we had her, but I vividly remember my mother bending down, explaining that Midnight was too big and that she'd be going to another family.
It's funny how our memory chooses what it remembers.