Historically, these cars, and those like it, have not been known to enter that automotive space where emotion comes into play. No one, for example, ever went weak at the knees contemplating its squared-off flanks, its 67-hp engine, or its 13-inch steel wheels fitted with 70-series all-season tires.

But we had this particular Colt a long time.

So, inevitably, it became something other than the sum of its Japanese parts.

Last week it drove under its own power to the local "auto recycler." The end of the road, so to speak, not only for our 14-year tenure with the car, but also for its very existence.

It began life half a world away, in Thailand. As many of you know, in those days Mitsubishi supplied a lot of subcompacts to Chrysler Canada, which the automaker variously badged as Dodge, Plymouth and/or Eagle products. This particular vehicle -- VIN ML3BA24K2MG902596 -- was sourced from Mitsubishi's plant in Thailand, and then shipped to Bob Bannerman Chrysler in Don Mills, Ontario. Two years after it was first sold, it showed up again on the Bob Bannerman lot as a lease return. That's when I first spotted it.

We were looking for a small "second" car that would be mostly driven by Diane. I was car shopping by myself that day, because after a harrowing experience at a Ford dealership, Diane refused to step on another car lot. (A salesman barricaded us in his office, and wouldn't let us out until we signed the papers on this purple, four-cylinder 1989 Mustang. I only managed to get us out by smashing a window with one of his bowling trophies.)

I wasn't specifically looking for a Dodge Colt three-door hatchback, but there it was, in royal blue, in perfect condition, and with one year left on its three-year bumper-to-bumper warranty. And just marked down to $5,500.

This was a base model to end all base models. No wheel covers, no a/c, no rear speakers, no extra trim or convenience features anywhere -- not even a remote hatch release. And the body style looked like it was the result of some perverse challenge -- shape a car using only flat sheets of metal, and use as few of them as possible. I couldn't see how you could design and build a four-seat automobile with fewer parts.

I was also pretty sure I was looking at one of the slowest cars you could buy. It was one of last cars to be fitted with a carburetor, which sat atop the low-tech 1.5-litre engine. With 67 horsepower on tap, you couldn't buy a car with less power in 1991, and the three-speed automatic on board pretty much sealed the deal. Who could claim slowness supremacy over this ride?

Ultimately, it radiated a Zen-like minimalist vibe that was too cool for school. I loved it.

And so did Diane. She bonded quickly with the Colt -- an uncomplaining, easy-driving companion that took her wherever she wanted to go.

As the years passed, I appreciated its simplicity even more. I drive a lot of cars, and every time I drove the Colt, I was reminded that bigger and more complex is not always better. The Colt was easy on gas, and on itself. It didn't have much power, but didn't need to. And brakes, tires, shocks, batteries, etc., all lasted longer on the Colt, compared with other cars I've owned, because they had less work to do.

Its performance in snow was miraculous. This was achieved mostly through accidental factors: it had tall, skinny tires that cut through snow like bicycle wheels; its weight was extremely biased over the front drive wheels; and it had the slow delivery of no power -- unintended traction control, if you will.

When the kids came along, they loved it too. Amelia (now 11) and Jared (now 8) can't even picture their mother driving any other car.

When it was getting long in the tooth, and a bit rusty, everyone was on my case to provide my wife and kids with more suitable transportation. But it was always Diane, not me, who wanted to keep driving it.

Over the last few years it was definitely aging less gracefully, but its demise never seemed imminent. Then the grim reaper came calling, and did something terminal to the expensive-to-replace carburetor. This was the straw that eventually broke the Colt's tender back.

A few weeks later, a replacement for the Colt was found (a story for another day). I drove this car home on a sunny Saturday, parked it in front of the house, and presented the keys to Diane.

When she had to run an errand an hour or so later, she went outside, walked around this car, and took off in the Colt. (In the intervening weeks, the Colt seemed to have cured itself, with maybe a little help from Lucas Fuel Treatment).

And she remained loyal to the Colt, refusing to drive its replacement. Weeks went by and nothing changed. Friends and family were concerned. They suggested I should force the matter and take the Colt away -- cold turkey. Another suggested that Diane was simply going through the necessary "grieving process" steps, and would come around eventually.

But one day the Colt suddenly reverted to stalling unpredictably, and she never drove it again. I parked it in an empty lot at the end of our street, where it remained for about two months. I don't know why I waited so long before making arrangements to take it to the wreckers, but I just did. When that day came, Diane drove, and I followed. We took pictures the day before, so it was nicely washed and vacuumed.

It stalled several times on the way there, and the very last time it stalled, there was almost an accident.

Once we got to the yard, things happened fast. I signed over the registration, the proprietor gave me $75 in cash, and I was suddenly no longer the owner of the Dodge Colt 100 E, VIN ML3BA24K2MG902596. We took the plates off, took once last look, and drove away.