I remember everything about the day we brought Mocha home. I was a tender four years old, wide-eyed and unknowing in a world reeling from the aftermath in the days following 9/11. I toddled up to the glass door, not even half its size, and pointed at the dog who was the first to jump up on the glass as I approached. "Look, daddy! The brown dog!" We took her out and played with her, and after just one play session, my dad was furiously calling my mom at work on his medieval flip phone: "Diane, you have to get down here. I'm about to buy a dog."

So would begin fifteen years filled with laughter, adventure, and unconditional love. The brown puppy with ears far too large for her head would become my friend, my sister, and an antidote for the loneliness that sometimes came with being the only child. I sat by her bed when I was afraid of the dark at night, we went outside together every year to play in the first big snow, and I shared my every meal with her. During the times in my life when I felt like I had no one, I had my dog. She was there through so many milestones; she defied all odds by living to see me graduate high school (and then another year after that). She was a once-in-a-lifetime type pet, and her unprecedented longevity was just one of the reasons why.

The reality of Mocha's mortality began to hit me in the last three or so years of her life. As she outlived my parents' previous dog and kept going, worries about my aging dog began to dominate my life, until it became apparent that there was nothing I feared more than losing her. Every time we went somewhere and left Mocha at home, fear would grip my heart on the way home, and I always had to be the first one in the door to make sure she was OK. My anxiety over this got so bad that my dad finally installed a Nest camera and aimed it at her bed, so I would be able to log on to the app and see her no matter where I was, and would receive notifications whenever she rotated between her bed and the bathroom; her two favorite spots to lie.

My parents tried (and in retrospect, I believe, succeeded) to prepare me for the death of my Mocha. There was nothing that could bring me to tears faster. I would cry any time it was brought up. When it became apparent that her health was declining, I even tried to prepare myself. I surfed the internet for articles on pet loss, grief support sites, the Humane Society, and psychology sites. The things I read started to become repetitive, and I realized that nothing would truly prepare me for the day I would have to say goodbye. However, now that it's over, I believe the "anticipatory grief," as they call it, helped me. On the Monday afternoon I was told that Mocha's suffering had become too great, and the end was near, I felt as though I had aged 50 years in a single minute. That day was possibly the longest of my life.

The next day was designated as Mocha's "bucket list" day. We took her to her old swimming hole, the one that used to make her yodel with excitement when she was younger. She paddled peacefully through the water, an expression of zen on her face that I will never forget. We took her to McDonald's and got her to eat a few chicken nuggets before she refused to eat anymore - which had been the final red flag that her time was here. Once that had been accomplished, the rest of that day and the next were filled with talk of Mocha's burial in the backyard, of the memorial stone my mom was ordering, of the vet tech who would be assisting with the procedure — the one who had stayed at our house on multiple occasions to care for Mocha when we were traveling. She would be surrounded by people who loved her, and she would finally be in pain no longer.

August 11, a date which shall live in infamy. It was a Thursday, a dark, stormy, rainy Thursday, exactly one week before what would have been Mocha's 15th birthday. The procedure was scheduled for five in the evening, so we had the day to spend with our beloved friend. I insisted to my mom that I be there for the procedure, though the image of her finally lowering her head is forever burned into my memory. Once the vet told us she was gone, I had to leave the room. I couldn't stand to see any more than I already had, so I waited in another room while the vet prepared her "coffin," for lack of a better word. I cried for Mocha while sitting there on the edge of my parents' bed next to an unknowing Ebby (my other dog) in her crate, but I stopped quickly and I have not cried for any reason since. When we took her outside to her grave, I stood there in utter shock and numbness as my parents buried her in the designated spot. As the beauty of life would have it, the rain stopped shortly before we went outside, and the sun came out and shined directly onto Mocha's fresh grave — no kidding, I have a picture of it. We laid down some flowers over the dirt and said our goodbyes. I personally have not been able to go back to the site since.

I want to say to you that I'm OK, because I feel like I am. I don't feel sadness or anger or guilt. Truthfully, I don't feel anything at all. This isn't at all what I expected grief to look like. I have yet to feel any strong negative emotion, I haven't cried since the day of Mocha's death, and I don't even eat half of what I used to. I'm sure these things are part of the process; I'm sure with time they'll fade away (not that I'm complaining about the change in my appetite). I didn't completely lose it like I always thought I would, which really surprised me: I lost something I had loved more than anything and came face to face with my greatest fear, all at once. There's a few reasons why that might be. I've read that my "psyche" might be protecting me. I've read that I'm still in a certain stage of mourning. I've read that I'm not in a place to deal with so many emotions at once, and maybe later I'll start to feel something. I don't know. Although I currently don't feel anything, I am able to look back at the millions of pictures taken of my sweet baby and smile. There are so many reasons to smile. What I experienced is the inevitable ending to an incredibly happy story. I'm sure one day I'll crack, and when I do it'll be relieving in the sense that I finally got a piece of myself back, the piece that full on wept at certain scenes in Finding Dory.

Losing a pet is awful. Although it is probably minor compared to what other people have to experience, the emotions are real and so is the aftermath. Pets are family, friends, and an enrichment to our lives. Love your pets, but also open your heart and love their successors, if there are any. I swore up and down I would never love another dog, yet I now have a little black lab who has wormed her way into my heart. To stop loving is no way to live.

Thank you for everything you gave to me and to this world, Mocha. Not a day will go by that I won't think about you.