For the 21 years I’ve lived in my home, I’ve never spent a night without a dog here, too. Until last week.

I grew up with dogs and had at least one (often two) throughout my marriage. All were rescues. All had a quirk or two. All were like family. Murphy, who died last week, lived with me the longest, 13 years.

We adopted her when my husband was a work-at-home-parent, so he was her person for the first several years of her life. When he abandoned us both, her personality changed – as did mine – and she became needier and more fearful, always underfoot, sensitive to the slightest noise and desperate for attention. I suppose in some ways she was reflecting what all the members of this household felt in those early days. I remember how close to me she slept when I had to learn to sleep alone and how safe I felt knowing she wouldn’t let any stranger through our door.

Over time, I became her person, despite my impatience with her new personality, and in many ways she became mine. She got me out of bed when I had no other reason to get up and gladly went to sleep with me no matter how early I gave up on the day. She was a source of unconditional affection, an eager companion, and a helpful distraction providing a much needed routine.

Ironically, I’d just recently told my doctor that I knew my newest medication was helping my depression because I’d become more empathetic and patient with Murphy. Now it feels like she was just holding on until she knew I’d be okay. When her organs began shutting down and the vet told me it wasn’t a question of if but when she would die, I made the decision all pet owners dread and said goodbye to her.

Choosing to say goodbye to someone feels much different than being left, but I found myself doing the same things I did when someone abandoned me. I came home and got rid of her dog food, threw away brushes and clippers, and moved other reminders out of sight before they could trigger another flood of tears. My youngest son saw me start to toss her dog food bowl and stopped me.

“Wait. What if you upcycled that into a planter or something? Wouldn’t that be a nice way to remember her?” Then he hugged me for a long time.

I know that at this stage of my life, goodbyes will come more frequently and cut more deeply, so learning to say goodbye is something I have to work on. I don’t think I ever want to get good at it, but I look forward to figuring out how to live with and reshape the pain into something else, maybe even something useful or beautiful.