Today marks 2 years since my girl Rina died. She was, to be clear, a dog that stole my heart.

In fact, as I’m writing this it’s just about the exact time when she transitioned. That feels important and meaningful.

It’s weird that she’s not here in many ways. And in other ways our time together almost seems like it happened in a different life.

As though there was the time before her, the time with her and now this time.

She was my constant companion. In the last few years together we were rarely apart except for maybe a few hours here or there. It was a gift, and one that I recognize as being something we both created. She knew I needed her, and I like to think I returned the gift in that last year.

My plan today was to take her ashes to the creek where I used to do ritual and she would stand guard on a large log. It’s on that same little creek bed where I would find the word love spelled with large rocks only a few months after her death. It was also this little place near the water where for a long time I most felt her presence. I could sense, almost see, her walking in front of me or beside me.

And then, one day, without much fanfare or awareness I realized that she just wasn’t there in the same way anymore. Thinking about that makes me sad.

I miss her. Oh my heart how I miss her.

She was, in reality, the only being who ever really knew my heart and my thoughts and my ways of being during a period in my life in which I felt disconnected from who I really wanted to be.

But she was my tether during that time. She was the thing that reminded me that sometimes a walk, a nap, a drink of water and a cuddle with someone you care about is all you need.

She taught me a lot about boundaries and avoiding situations you just didn’t have the time or energy for.

She taught me that there really are only a handful of folks in our lives that awaken a deep sense of joy and wonder.

And most of all, she taught me to love in a way that even now feels somewhat foreign. It’s the kind of connection and love that I think only exists between a person and their four-legged beings after many years together. It’s a quiet, understood, always present and patient love. I suppose some might call it unconditional, and maybe that’s what it was.

But today I just miss her. I miss the smell of her coat, the sound she made when she exhaled, the way her little tongue would stick out, how she slept at my feet on the bed, how she loved to carry a stick, how she’d sit outside the coffee shop waiting for me, the funny sounds she’d make when I walked in the door, how she’d greet me with a toy in her mouth, so many things.

Most of all I think I miss the simplicity of her presence and the confidence of our connection. It was and always will be something unique that belonged only to us.

And for that I am grateful.