I guess I was still expecting her to be sleeping on the couch as I walked through the door. I was still expecting her head to whip at the sound, look around for a moment until she noticed me, then jump down, still half asleep, and bound over to my feet until I pet her for a bit and playfully chased her away.

I’ve been greeted like this every day for the last fourteen years. It didn’t matter if I was gone for eight hours or for twenty minutes; she still would run up to me with the same enthusiasm.

I’m angry that she had to pass at 3am this morning in a cage at the vet’s office. I was there in less than fifteen minutes; I left right after the veterinary assistant called and let me know how rapidly she was declining. But she died while I was driving there. I should have been there while it happened, and I’m sorry that I wasn’t fast enough.

I’m going to miss her so much. I’m going to miss the fact that after I left a room for a few minutes, I would hear her collar tinkling as she got up to join me. I’m going to miss how gently she took food from my fingers when I was feeding her; she was always so careful. I’m going to miss how she would ask for more petting by swiping one paw across her nose. I’m going to miss her begging as I cooked in the kitchen. But mostly I’m going to miss the comfort of knowing that when I got home, she would be waiting.

I don’t have any memory of life before you, Bud, and it’s painful to realize that I will never see you again. The only thing that consoles me is the knowledge that you’re someplace better. Wherever that is, I hope there are endless rabbits and cats for you to chase. You were the best dog and I will always love you.