On Thursday, October 20th, I received news no one ever wants to hear. I learned that my dog suffered a grand mal seizure (after suffering from smaller ones for a few weeks prior) and that she died in the midst of it. If nothing else, I was destroyed, to say the least.

I visited home for fall break only two weeks prior. She didn't act like her usual self; instead of bounding to me and turning herself inside out with excitement, she crawled on top of me and laid there for a solid hour, all while making noises of happiness. Still a ridiculously adorable greeting, but not the type I was used to getting from her.

I believed she was going to get better. I kept telling myself that she was just being given too much of her anti-seizure medication, that a few days being off of it would bring her back to her usual self. I wasn't entirely wrong there; my parents had the same suspicion, and while her return wasn't at all fast, it was evident.

What we didn't realize was that her change in behavior was likely the result of a brain tumor. For the last couple of weeks of her life, she was essentially walking around with a massive headache, and no one could tell.

No one ever wants to think that the worst case scenario is the one that's happening to them, and oftentimes, it isn't. But this time, the worst case scenario did happen.

There's no one to blame for Lily dying. The chances of seizures being the result of a brain tumor are small; we just happened to fall into that small percentage. No one could have known without extensive testing, and we would never want to put her through that if it only bought us a few more months. No one is to blame.

But even so, I still find myself confused and angry. We loved her so dearly, she fit into our family so seamlessly. To me, with the wound still fresh, I'll keep saying that this is unfair for weeks, even months to come. She was such a good girl, only six-years-old.

As much as I've been crying into the shoulders of my friends, my girlfriend, and my stuffed dog, no amount of tears are going to bring my dog back. I can deny, deny, deny, as many times as I want, but saying her name three times in the mirror won't summon her back.

The next best thing is to talk about how much you meant to me and maybe make sure people who still have their pets know to tell them they love them.

Lily, you were the first dog I ever had. When I was a kid, I was terrified of dogs; they would chase me wanting to play, but I thought they wanted to eat me. I spent most of my life around cats, which only fueled my fear of dogs.

Then my friends all began acquiring dogs across various breeds: schnauzers, newfoundlands, terriers, and eventually, a corgi. When my dad first saw photos my friend Katiee's corgi Nugget, he fell in love. He was fairly adamant about a dog never being for us, but there was something about corgis he loved.

One day, my mom came across your ad on Craigslist, and before we knew it, you were a permanent resident of the Finnegan household, and of our hearts.

You had the stubbiest legs of any creature on this planet, yet you looked in the mirror and saw a wolf. You pulled on the leash relentlessly when you wanted to challenge a pitbull or some other dog at least double your size. A walk with you wasn't complete without at least two or three (almost) heart attacks.

Your begging skills were top notch. If you sat on one side and we said no, you'd simply sit down on the other side and resume the process. You always had a huge smile on your face, a diamond of pure white fluff puffing from your neck and chest, and the friendliest eyes in the whole neighborhood. Refusing you was difficult.

You were usually good natured, but your temper was also legendary. I don't think the vet will forget how it took three vet-techs to hold you down for a blood sample, and even a muzzle. You always had something to say, and everyone always knew what was on your mind.

You always knew when something was on my mind. Your crate was next to my bed, and you'd always doze there, waiting for me to come to bed. If I laid down and was so much as not smiling, you'd immediately get up and demand to be lifted to snuggle with me. Waking up in the morning to find you still at the foot of my bed made mornings so much better.

I feel like I'm talking about you as though you were a person. You were a dog, but you were still a part of the family. You were my best friend, my cuddle buddy, my treat gobbler, my food begger, my partner in crime. You might as well have been a real person; you certainly were my person.

Don't try to play fetch with the halos up there. Be sure to get used to the walk on the Rainbow Bridge, because you're coming to say hi to me when I get up there (if I don't find you first). Most of all, be a good girl, and don't try to pick a fight with a pitbull up there.