Those of us who have been lucky enough to love a dog sign up for the grief, too. Oh, we don’t talk about it, but we all know it. Some of us have also been there before, and we know what we’re in for.

Smudge, The Smudge, Smudgepuppet, Mudgepuppet, Mudge, Smudgie, Little One, Muds. We all seemed to have our own endearing name for her.

She’s gone. Just 3 months shy of 17. Maybe that’s a respectable old age for a dog, but let me tell you, that is nowhere near long enough. What I wouldn’t give to have her back again, because I just don’t know how to be without her.

She was more human than canine, and part feline too. She had a sense of humor, and―paradoxically—both a love of routine and a sense of adventure. Even people who didn’t like dogs loved her, almost against their will. She weighed 8 pounds and she was larger than life. She was smarter than any dog I have ever known, and that is saying something. We always said we didn’t want a small dog, especially one with Chihuahua in her blood, but she wasn’t needy, whiny, or yappy. Besides, fate has a way of setting you on a path even when you have other plans.

The thing about grief is this: it is a bottomless pit—it clouds every waking thought, and then it sleeps in fits and starts. It flares and settles like wildfire smoke. It’s hard to breathe. And somehow you must find room for it, and then carry its unwanted weight with you for the rest of your life.

We could see the warning in the distance—rolling in slowly at first, and then picking up speed. And we bargained with it. We were more careful with everything. We cooked her food. We adapted our environment to accommodate her vision and hearing loss. We carried her down hard-to-see stairs, and up too, when she needed it.

In spite of her sensory challenges, she could still run like the wind, trusting the carpet runner to guide her down the long hallway. And she still had her amazing, nearly human, sense of humor.

We are left looking at the empty spaces everywhere. Waiting for the polite dinnertime tap on our legs. Finding tiny tennis balls all over the house, under all the furniture. Listening for the bell she would ring to go outside.

She spent her last day in the sunshine, walked all over the freshly cut grass, and she had two lunches. She had cheese. She had love. She had her people around her.