You growled. You barked. You ignored me. You treated me like crap and hero-worshipped my mother from the second we brought you home. You were neurotic and epileptic and acted like a really obnoxious cat. You were arguably the worst dog in the history of mankind, and now that you're gone you've left an ache in my heart that the gallons upon gallons of tears I've spilled can't heal.

You always seemed to hate me; there was very rarely any love in those chocolate eyes of yours, only annoyance and anger. But there were moments. First thing in the morning, for example. I'd come out of my room and instead of charging at me like a tiny little mother bear you would paw my leg and wag your tail. I'd pick you up, and instead of a growl I'd get a kiss. Only one, but a kiss. You gave them so rarely that that one kiss from you was worth a hundred from any other dog. Kisses from you were like diamonds. When I would get really sick, you'd skulk into my room and curl up at the foot of my bed, growling every time I moved. It was your backwards way of trying to make me feel better. And last year, when I came home for breaks, you'd come barreling out of my parents' room like usual, but when you saw who it was at the door, you'd skid to a halt and stare up at me in utter disbelief, like, "Oh my, God, I thought you'd died! I've missed you so much!" And then I'd get more tail wags and kisses and cuddles over the time I was home than I had in the past ten years.

It's always the little things that we miss the most. Like how, up until the very end, you never lost your spunk. You never got run down and defeated. You always had the energy to explode off the back of the sofa or the foot of the bed the moment the doorbell rang, pick up that stupid little stuffed panda and shake it violently. And how when you'd been playing, that one little tuft of hair would fall over your mouth to give you that self-satisfied smirk. And how Dad and I could get you to leap into our laps after dinner, but Mom--the one whom you doted on and couldn't let leave your sight--never could. You were usually a fairly intelligent dog, but you had your moments of epic fail: That one time when you were lying on the edge of the bed and tried to roll over for a tummy rub and rolled right off the edge. The number of times you collided with the screen door on Fire Island and ricochet off it like a tennis ball. How you would shake your toy too close to the wall and hit your head, or try and jump up on the bed and miss. You were so afraid of thunderstorms and fireworks you would shed your dignity and hide under the bed.

I was devastated when I found out you were sick. That was the moment I realized just how much you meant to me, just how little all my grievances about you really mattered. You were the first dog I really connected with. Your predecessor, Kerry, died before I was old enough to really have an emotional connection with. I loved her, but not like you. And then in June, you started having frequent attacks, unable to breath, and we had to take you to the vet and leave you there overnight twice in one week. June 18, I came home, and we were about to put you down. You looked so terrified, panting so hard, your eyes bulging in terror, and you looked at me like, "Oh please, help me..." and my heart broke. But the vet said that there was nothing to lose if we were considering euthanasia, and we went all out on the medication. And it kept you alive and kicking for another four months until finally you had enough. October 9th. I was at school, my parents were out of town. You woke up the housekeeper in the middle of the night, took a few last raspy breaths, and closed your eyes one last time. All I can say to you now, Chloe, is that I'm sorry for the times I swore at you and laughed at you; I'm sorry for calling you stupid and saying I hated you, because underneath all your crap, underneath all the fear and anger, you were a great dog. I love you.