When I was about six, my parents, in a well-intentioned but misguided parenting gesture, brought home an adorable Sealyham terrier, named him "Chester," and then stood back and waited for a bond to form between us.  But it turned out that Chester was even less interested in me than I was in him.  He poured all of his considerable energy into getting as filthy as possible at every opportunity, and I preferred playing with insects, so we tacitly agreed to ignore each other for the duration of his stay.  Indeed, I hardly noticed when he was shipped off to a farm (yes, a real farm) less than six months later.  I felt no sadness at Chester’s departure and I certainly didn't miss him, but every so often it would cross my mind that he was once our dog.  Then I would picture him happily chasing livestock and rolling in a pigsty somewhere and think he was well out of it.