I used to have the most adorable doggo named Ginger. She was a rescue and nobody knew where she came from. She hated water and bearded men (we never found out why exactly). When I was seven years old, three days before my birthday, my parents had to put her to sleep. She was falling over constantly, unable to climb stairs, and had lived a good long doggo life of thirteen human years. I understood why, even at seven.

Today, almost seven years later, I was looking through pictures to get for this graduation slideshow thing. We had to get a baby picture, and the moment I saw a picture of my doggo, my Ginger, I burst into tears. I miss her. I miss my doggo. I loved—no LOVE—her so much, and I just want her to come back but I know she can’t. I can’t see her until I die. And when I do eventually die, I know I’ll smile and find her there.