She was afraid of thunder and she wouldn't eat raw vegetables

I miss my dog. She's been dead for seven years and I still miss her.

We got her when I was three, and that's the first clear memory that I have. Of anything. I got to pick her out, and I don't remember why I chose her, but I remember that I loved her floppy, silky puppy ears and her eyes that were brown just like mine.

She was almost perfect. Sure, she ate my dad's ducks (they clogged up the spring in the backyard, so good riddance, I say) and hated all UPS men, but she was loyal and protective and good with kids. My brother and I used to go on long walks—"journeys" to the mailbox a mile away at the end of the lane—and B.R. would always have to be half a length in front. If you tried to walk in front of her, she would trot ahead, back legs not quite in line with the front, tail wagging. She liked to swim.

She died when I was fifteen, I think, of old age. I was in high school, busy and inattentive, and, I know now, scared of it. I remember my parents taking care of her when she was too sick to go outside, too sick to stand up. I didn't ever see her when she was like that, but every time I think of her, it kills me that I didn't—that I didn't do anything, and I didn't see her, and now she's gone. She's buried in the backyard at my parents' house, guarded by St. Francis and scattered pansies. I avoid that corner of the lawn when I'm home.

Someone told me last year, after I told her about my wonderful golden lab, that someday I would want another dog. No, I thought, I won't.

I already have one.