Read more: Honoring What Was Through Furry Friends

I still remember the day we brought our third family dog, Sophie, home. She was a sleek, food-loving black lab sold out of a truck on the side of a rural road. No papers; just a lolling tongue and kind demeanor. My sister and I begged my father to let us have her — a days-long endeavor that finally bore fruit after he held her in his arms, and looked into those large, brown eyes for the first time.

“She is pretty cute,” dad said as he held her outside the passenger-side window of my mom’s car. Mom looked lovingly on, that aged knowing in her gaze.

Like all good dads, he caved.

We got Sophie in July, right on the cusp of my freshman year of high school. She threw up in the car before we managed to get her home. Then, she ate it. And just before we rolled into the driveway, she pooped. Dad felt immediate regret, but also a steady acceptance.

It was clear: Sophie had all the makings of a perfect dog.

Our love for her was immediate. She clung to me the most because I was around the house more between college and work. She was clingy, and she never roamed beyond your sight — not even to chase other animals or passersby. By the time she was a year old, she devoured an end table, an entire stick of butter, and a full canister of blood pressure pills. She loved the beach, eating anything not red-hot and nailed down (which was also debatable), and sitting in the pond beside our house.

Most importantly, she loved her people — all four of them.

It is this special thing: the bond between a dog and its humans. You feel it across time and distance; at work, or in dorm rooms far, far from your childhood home. It threads you all together in this inextricable way. Before you know it, you plan your life around each other. You begin to say:

• “Oh, I can’t stay out much longer — my dog’s waiting for me at home.”
• “Fine, I can do that, but only for a few hours because I need to walk my dog.”
• “I bought a new dog bed because the old one was looking ratty, but I still hope she sleeps in my bed.”
• “Sophie needs to go to the vet, so I’m going to cut off work a few hours early tonight.”
• “I don’t want to leave her at a kennel without us — do we have to go away for so long?”

You spend long, winter nights cuddled on the couch together — half on, half falling off, as the dog is taking up most of the room. You buy extra presents, dog toys at Christmas; you look for each other immediately upon you arrive home.

You are a family.

We were a family.

Over the years, my family has shrunk. First, when my dad fell sick and lost his way. Then again, when my sister passed. A third time when my mother almost passed, too. For the longest time, Sophie was the only constant in our family. She was there after long hospital stays and hard days; after tearful breakdowns, and terse arguments, and financial strain. Her presence represented a gentler age in my family; one where we travelled, and laughed, and snuggled into the comfort of home. A time where we were the Smith family on Preserve Landing Drive: resilient in silent struggles, but united in our love of each other and the small home we had.

Sophie was our centerpiece; our reminder of a world that once turned in the blissful naivety of time.

Which made her passing today feel like the closing of a long, languishing life chapter.

Sophie passed at the ripe, old age of 17: a herculean accomplishment for any large dog, but certainly for one who ate an entire cannister of blood pressure pills and didn’t pee for 24 hours. Her passing stirred all the sentiments that accompany the death of beloved family dogs; but also, the sting of  the family I once had.

In many ways, today feels like mourning the loss of my family again for the first time. I see dad, and Katie, and mom, and the loud, warm life we had before reality raked its hand over us.

It becomes too easy to forget the good foundational memories in life. The newer, terser ones tend to carry this bitter bite that overwhelms the old. In moments like today, those foundational moments feel farther than ever because the people and creatures attached to them are removed from our lives.

It’s important to remember that the pressurized state of bad times do not erase the good; only buries them. Duty, loss, and exhaustion take the good and send it to a place where its forced to gasp for air, but not die. Eventually, important losses pave the way for us to remove those rock — in our own time, in our own way — to give oxygen to those good memories.

So, today, I cleared the rubble. I reached inside and held those old memories and feelings close, almost like I was feeling them for the first time. I remembered the soft, warm feeling of Sophie’s fur beneath my fingers and the life of laughter that heralded simpler times.

I remember the good.

I also remember the sweet, clipped gait of Sophie as she romped down the beach. Only this time, this day, she traipses across that rainbow bridge.

As we close, I am also reminded of all the versions Sophie saw of me: the young, the exhausted, the mourning, the overwrought, the caretaker, and the young professional. But she always looked at me the way she did the first day we lifted her from that roadside truck: with the love, adoration, and the steady acceptance of family.

Happy trails, sweet girl.

Love,

Your Lauren

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