Heartless as it is, I never understood grief for dead dogs. I thought real grief was when a loved one died. When I was younger, my two Siberian huskies died due to old age, but I never cried. Sure, I was sad, but it didn’t take me that long to get over it. My mom explained that death was natural — a part of life and all that Lion King “Circle of Life” stuff. But on March 23, 2016, I was reminded that grief comes and leaves flippantly — never asking permission of those grieving.

Unlike the two Siberian huskies who my parents owned before I was born, I always remembered Bandit. I remember when my family rescued the 2-year-old beagle when I was 8, and how he would bay into the air and return to his important task of finding that one squirrel. I remember when I was 10 and he ran off and I cried — fearing that I would never see him again. I didn’t have to wait that long, because sure enough, he returned with mud covering ever inch of his multicolored patches of fur.

I remember everything about him. But as I grew older, so did he. He would sleep more. Walk slower. Run away less often. I ignored this, of course. I made excuses, saying that beagles normally live longer around 15 to 17 years. Bandit was only 13.

I didn’t know how quickly it could happen. He caught an infection in December. As soon as he caught the infection, he stopped eating. He stopped drinking water. He even stopped bothering to get up. In one month he went from jumping on my legs excitedly when I returned home from school to barely lifting his head up when I sat beside him.

I left for college hoping that he would get better, and my mom convinced me too. She said he was even eating again which was a good sign. But less than a week later, I saw a Twitter post my sister made that broke my heart. He died in January of 2016.

I cried, of course. I’ve never loved a dog that much before. I understood the grief. Bandit wasn’t a person, but he was definitely a loved one I cherished in my life. There were times I would be on the phone with my mom, and as soon as I hung up, I would sob uncontrollably. This year has absolutely sucked, by my standards.

But I moved on…sort of. Nothing stopped me from becoming an uncontrollable maniac when I came across a dog walking in a park. It would feel like a hand squeezed my insides whenever I saw a cute dog, producing a high-pitched squeak as I whispered, “dog.”

On March 26, #NationalPuppyDay, it only got worse. All of a sudden, my Instagram feed was filled with dogs everywhere. Absolute heaven. If you were around me on March 26, you probably would hear random dying noises coming from my mouth as I stared into my phone screen as if my lost lover were trapped inside.

I realized that I am no longer grieving. What replaced grief was this strange obsession to obtain as much puppy love as I could. I was — I am — that crazy dog lady. So those of you using whatever excuse to post pictures of your adorable pooch on social media: go crazy. Post a picture every day. Just know that I secretly wish I could steal your dog so I can love it forever.