I will never forget the day we brought you home. We saw an ad for you in the paper (because people still read the paper in 2003) and my sister and I spent weeks tugging on the hem of my mother's skirt, burdening my father every time he walked through the door until we finally wore them down.

"We're just going to look," my mother said. "By no means whatsoever are we coming home with a puppy today." You know how that story ends. You were only four pounds that day, just a tiny little fluff ball with floppy ears and an ingrained vendetta against seagulls. You were the last one from your litter, practicing perfect behavior and waiting patiently to be chosen by your new family. Us.

When you get a dog, you know this day will come, you just don't know how much it's going to hurt. We spent so many of my sleepy childhood mornings watching cartoons together, and you'd never leave the couch without me. We'd spend summer evenings on the porch together, with me reading while you perked your head up every time a particularly strong breeze would rustle the azaleas. Even beyond your puppyhood, you were small enough to fit in my bike basket, and we rode everywhere together.

I'd take you to the bay and let you boss the dogs four times your size around, or to the park, where you'd disappear into huge piles of leaves in the fall. Come Christmas, you'd snuggle up on your favorite rug by the fire, and stick your nose into all of our stockings after inspecting every present under the tree.

As I grew older, so did you. Soon I was driving a Volvo instead of a beach cruiser, and morning cartoons turned into "The Today Show." I loved watching it with you, partially because you never judged me for secretly loving the fourth-hour segment with Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotbe. When I came home late from football games, you were waiting at the door for me. When I had my first real heartbreak, you were beside me.

You'd paw at the door of whatever room I was in to be with me, or try to hop into the car with me when you'd see me grab my keys. You'd follow me to the kitchen or my bedroom, and even wait outside the bathroom door while I showered. Even in your old age you had the kindest and most innocent of aspirations; to be closer, to be held, and to give and receive love.

So thank you, Daisy, for always loving me. Thank you for your good morning kisses and your good night snuggles that I will never know again. It is so painful to know that these moments are only memories, that I will never pet you or hold you again. Thank you for letting me cry into your fur during those confusing years as a teenager, and for watching "Breakfast at Tiffany's" with me over and over again.

Thank you for letting me hold your sweet little paws in my hands when I wanted to feel big and grown up, and for keeping the seagulls away on our beach days. But most of all, thank you for everything you have taught me about love and compassion without even knowing. Those who have had and loved a dog will understand the impact you have had on my life, and the way that knowing you has changed me for the better. I miss you, and I love you forever.