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Bandit, one of the Fisher-Paulson family’s dogs.

Bandit with one of the Fisher-Paulson sons.

I did not want to write two dead dog columns in one year. I did not want another empty leash in the laundry room, an unused cushion in the bedroom.

No, I really didn’t. But dogs are a losing proposition. We go into the relationship knowing we will likely outlive them. The average life span of a canine is about 10 to 13 years. This varies by breed. The Pekingese, for example, live about 12 to 15 years.

The average for a human, on the other hand, is roughly 73 years. This varies due to a lot of factors, one of which is career. Studies disagree, but most actuaries will tell you that having spent almost 30 years as a peace officer, I should be dead by now.

But, nope, I’m still here, whereas those dogs who love us live for a much shorter time. It doesn’t seem fair. By the end of last year, I’d outlived Whiskers, Miss Grrrl, Diva, Wolfcub, Qp, Krypto and Buddyboy, and each of them was much nicer than I am.

A decade ago, there were three hounds living in the Bedlam Blue Bungalow in the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior. The very last thing we needed was a fourth dog, let alone one that was crippled.

But my sons, Zane and Aidan, had seen a parti-colored puppy in the window of the pet shop where we stocked up on kibble, chicken-flavored toothpaste and treats. Week after week, the tiny black and white dog sat in his cage. Aidan asked, “Why don’t we buy him?”

I answered, “Dogs tend to choose us.”

One August afternoon, the pet store owner called me to say that the puppy’s bone plates had grown in wrong. Part Japanese Chin and part Pekingese, the genetics just didn’t work. He would never be able to walk correctly. If we didn’t take him in, she would have no choice but to …

Aidan said, “I guess he did choose us.”

We drove to the store, trying to convince my husband, Brian, that we needed a fourth pooch. He held his ground until he walked into the store and said, “We’ll call him Bandit, because he stole our hearts.”

Zane insisted, “Bandit is my dog,” and so my hyperactive ADHD son sat with him for hours on the couch, holding a bone for him to chew.

There’s no such thing as a free dog. We found a doctor. Then a surgeon. Many long drives to UC Davis and many thousands of dollars later, Bandit had a screw in each shoulder that allowed him to hobble. The surgeon came out of the operating room to say that we had “to love him especially hard, because dogs who had gone through so much trauma didn’t tend to live for quite so long.”

As soon as the casts came off, Bandit announced he was the alpha, and no one argued. The other dogs never barked until he told them they could.

The Tiny Tim of toy dogs never got much past that hobbling stage. Crazy Mike said it looked kind of like a strut. Bandit had about 50 wobbly steps in him before he had to sit down. And sitting was what he did best. He sidled right up to you, and remained almost inert, but very warm. I would swear I slept better when he was on my side of the bed.

Until Tuesday night. Bandit was restless. He nibbled at his chicken and rice. He wouldn’t sleep in our bed, and chose instead the cushion on the floor.

I woke up at 4:30 to get ready for work and went to carry him to the yard, only to find he had slipped away into that forever sleep during the night, not wanting to wake any of us up. Queenie walked over and sniffed. And howled. She had become a pack of one.

Aidan said, “Don’t cry. This is the circle of life.”

Bandit was a good dog. He did what a dog should do, which is to say, loved his family with all his heart. He might not have had many moments, but he made each day of his 10 years count.

Yes, dogs are a losing proposition. They fill our hearts, and then they go away.

But please don’t send me sympathy cards with a rainbow bridge. We took that journey with Buddyboy last December. Instead, scratch your own dog’s head and tell her that you love her. Slip her a slice of chicken. Tell her you know all dogs go to heaven.

We, the human pack, must be left behind, knowing they have been leading us there the whole time.

Kevin Fisher-Paulson’s column appears Wednesdays in Datebook. Email: datebook@sfchronicle.com

Kevin Fisher-Paulson is the author of "How We Keep Spinning" and "A Song for Lost Angels." Fisher-Paulson lives with his husband, Brian, their two sons, and pack of rescue dogs in the mysterious outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior. When he's not writing, he serves as commander of the honor guard for the San Francisco Sheriff's Department.