dear abby (again),

Our pretty dog.

Something weird that I keep thinking about is something that my psychiatry attending said regarding a patient. He said, it's amazing how many people in the midst of psychotic episodes are brought into the hospital because their dog died. You were still alive then, but I'm pretty sure I spent the moments after he said that thinking, my god, I need her to be okay. And this patient we had: I understood his sadness.

I just want you to know that I miss you and talk about you every single day. You were the light of my summer and I liked that you were always extra cuddly in the morning. You would throw your head on my shoulder and just lay there, which is not something I could always get you to do pretty much any other time. Maybe my favorite thing was whenever you heard the word "outside," you could pop up and be ready to go, even at your sickest. And the greetings when we came home. You would always be super excited, no matter where you were in the apartment, grab the nearest object on the ground (sometimes one of your toys, sometimes a sock laying around).

Even though you had to spend a lot of time at the vet the last week, we tried to make sure you got a visit every day. Nobody could believe how much you lit up when you saw us. I was sure you were like that for any person you saw, but the staff insisted it was mostly just for us. Thanks for that... sometimes you acted like a cat, so we appreciate the little things. I brought your green lamb toy, hoping they would keep it with you, so we played with that one day when you had a lot of energy. Other days, you just rested your head in my lap and slept.

I wrote this super long thing about you after the vet told us you had cancer because I wanted to remember every little thing you did that made my days or made me worry. But I guess there are only a few takeaways. The first is self-indulgent: I feel comfort in knowing that you got to spend the end of your life with people who loved you and tried to convince you to play with toys you were uninterested in. But who would also scour the neighborhood for somewhere that was fenced in so you could run to your heart's content (the fact that some of the running was after a rabbit who was able to dig under the fence while you ran snout-first into it is not our doing. Of note: Alex was secretly cheering for you to "get it." Not that we knew what "getting" the rabbit would entail, in your opinion).

The second takeaway: after you passed away, Alex and I signed up to volunteer for Chicago Animal Care and Control. You taught us that our lives are meant to be lived for those who can't protect themselves. I used to think that my priority should be people, but I now know that there are too many vulnerable people and animals. I hope that we are able to help in a profound way, either by fostering or adopting again. In my mind, it's important to keep repeating "No other dog would replace Abby," even though that's a given. No question. But if we can help out some more animals in the future, it would be to honor you, Abby.