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Back in the 80s when my kids were in their teens and early 20s, we added a second dog to the household, a Yorkshire Terrier.

We named him Randle Patrick McMurphy, after the protagonist in Ken Kesey’s novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. We called him Murphy.

The seller told us he was a teacup Yorkie, but they forgot to tell Murph. Teacups usually weigh only a few pounds as adults, but Murphy kept growing. He turned out to be a strapping eight-pounder.

Murphy was a handsome, healthy fellow who had no idea he was a tiny Gulliver in the land of the Brobdignagians. True, he was adept at dodging the giants’ feet in a crowded kitchen, but that didn’t keep him out of the kitchen.

Although diminutive, Murphy wasn’t a sissy dog by any stretch. He had the heart and courage of a lion. He was the bravest dog I’ve even known, regardless of size.

Murphy deferred to our other dog Dinah, a Lhasa Apso, because she was queen of the household.

But Murphy assumed the role of second banana out of doggy propriety, not fear. As far as I know, he feared nothing — no force or being on earth.

I once watched Murphy chase the Avon lady from our front porch. In 10 seconds, the little guy backed a plus-sized adult halfway to the street.

When the unfortunate and unsuspecting woman rang our doorbell, Deanna opened the door. Instantly, Murphy shot past her onto the porch, barking like a tiny fiend, leaping at the woman, lunging forward, snapping his teeth like he meant it.

Each time Murphy leaped at her, the Avon lady backed away another step. As she retreated, Murphy advanced.

The woman had backed 20 feet away from the porch before Murphy was satisfied. His foe defeated, he turned and calmly trotted back into the house.

Deanna apologized profusely to the woman, who consented to come inside only after we assured her that Murphy was safely confined in a bedroom.

In the end, Murphy’s courage was his undoing. A year or so after Deanna and I got divorced, a friend came to visit her. The friend had a large dog of some kind — 80 to 100 pounds, I heard — that they put in the back yard on a chain.

Somehow, Murphy got out the back door, and he attacked the intruder like the wolverine he thought himself to be. He never had a chance. He died of his wounds.

Not long after Murphy’s demise, old age caught up with Dinah, and she, too, was gone. Deanna was alone, and she wasn’t coping well.

The boys and I decided to go in together and buy her a puppy. She wanted a border collie, so we found a suitable kennel and let Deanna take her pick of the litter. She chose a beautiful female, Celeste, who was her darling for the next 15 years.

Holding that new puppy, Deanna was as happy and appreciative as a human can get. We could not have done a better deed at a better time.

I once read that Ken Kesey chose McMurphy’s name because he liked the significance of the initials RPM. RPM seemed appropriate for our Murphy, too.

Poor little Murph died young in a blaze of glory. In his short life, he impressed us all with his spirit, his pluck, and his stoutness of heart.

Just like his namesake in the novel.

The little big man, Randle Patrick McMurphy.