Here’s a heartwarming college essay written by Sanjana Prasad, NYU Stern Class of 2020, that she submitted to Villanova University last year as her admissions essay. (She was accepted to Villanova based on this essay.) It's a heartfelt narrative about her pet beagle and how he shaped her life. Sanjana details the twists and turns of her journey with Achilles, and invites you for the biggest twist at the end.

“I will never forget the day I met Achilles. It was a chilly October morning, swirling with crimson leaves and steam off the tea kettle, redolent with the fragrance of pumpkin pie and the sweet perfume of dead leaves crunching underfoot. The doorbell chimed. And there stood my father, with Achilles, sleeping, in his arms.

At six months old, Achilles was diminutive. His soft white underbelly spread out over half my father’s arms, his rounded paws curling around my father’s left pinky, his fragile caramel face completely obscured by his large, floppy ears. As I gingerly petted his velvety head, he opened his large, brown eyes and looked up at me keenly. Even at six years old, I could sense the startling intelligence of his gaze - a thoughtful, understanding astuteness that to me, even now, defies definition and expression. Between his every contemplative and long lashed blink, I peered into the windows of a wise and kindred soul.

As a rescue dog, Achilles was unusually quiet and withdrawn from us for a couple of months. He was frightened of the dark: during the nighttime, when I would sneak down to see how he was doing, I could barely discern him trembling on the cushion. My parents never told me what happened to him before he came to live with us, but they didn’t need to - the palpable fear in his thoughtful eyes when he heard the pressure cooker whistle, or the fire alarm go off, told me everything. Initially, he was wary of all of us - and so for the most part,

I would sit with him from a distance every day.

But each day, I would inch closer and closer to Achilles, and he would inch closer and closer to me. I began to talk to him, to read my favorite books to him, or gently talk to him about my day. I got to know him better. He had an unparalleled gift of attention - of analyzing my entire soul in the range of a single conversation, of comprehending me with a discerning glance. As evidence of his overwhelming empathy, he began to mimic my expressions: When I laughed, his nose would twitch and he would bark excitedly; when I frowned, he would droop his head and rest it on my knee. I quickly discovered that his favorite song was I Want It That Way by the Backstreet Boys, as he bobbed his head to the rhythm and ran around the coffee table when he heard it. With the constancy and steadiness of my visits, Achilles and I began to form an inextricable and rare bond of trust and love.

We grew together. Spring was filled with jumping over, and occasionally into, puddles of rain together. During summers, Achilles and I were brave and intrepid explorers, mapping out the neighborhood and running away from irate neighbors when they caught Achilles sniffing their peonies. Autumns and winters overflowed with humongous piles of leaves and sledding and ice skating. And unlike the fleeting seasons, we were bound by an unparalleled loyalty, a constant, unyielding comradery, a mutual and unspoken understanding of our deepest natures. Achilles found a new life with our family, and I found a new life with him - together, we were more daring, more confident, more full of life. Knowing that Achilles was with me, that he would be there for me as I was for him - gave me the power to seize life’s moments with zeal and purpose.

Achilles died with his eyes wide open. They were empty shells, devoid of the complex and ineffable thoughtfulness they once carried. After we buried him in our backyard, I would frequently visit him in silence, just as I did when we first got him. And he would comfort me with his presence as I comforted him. I would be there for him, as he was for me, and as I was for him.

My mother named Achilles in fondness, calling him her “weak spot” and spoiling him until the end. But to me, Achilles was anything but a weak spot. He was, to his deepest core, a paramount of strength. The words with which I described him by in his burial speech - courageous, wise, and loyal - barely seemed to scratch the surface of the enormity of him and his existence. Before him, I did not know what it meant to be able to love a person without qualification or reservation - that love was not poetry but presence and constancy. Before him, I did not know the true extent of my spirit, and its ability to trust and face the future with fearlessness. Before him, I did not fully know myself.

Achilles imparted himself in me, and me in him. I strive to spread what he gave me, to inject the relationship with my mother, and father, and sister, and friends, with a part of his whole-heartedness. And in moments of doubt, or confusion, or uncertainty, in my abilities and my future, I recall the gentle, starry-eyed beagle my father brought home many years ago, and his boundless spirit.”

Plot Twist: Sanjana actually never had a dog. Happy April Fools! [A few days late!]