I’ve been raising service dog puppies for Canine Companions for Independence since I was 15 years old. I’ve had three dogs so far. One of them, a female Lab/golden retriever mix named Minnie, is working as a service dog for a man who was in a serious car accident. The second, another Lab/golden retriever mix named Wisdom, is a hearing dog for a woman who lost her hearing in a surgery. And as of this past Friday, the third puppy, Wilder, is working with an 8-year-old girl.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love dogs. I will interrupt conversations to point out a dog. I will stare uncomfortably at other people’s dogs with a big, goofy smile on my face. I follow Facebook’s Dogspotting page religiously, and on multiple occasions, I’ve nearly crashed my car while craning my neck to look at some passing canine. All I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember is to have my own dog (preferably a Lab or a golden retriever). Which means it’s baffling that, for the past five years, I’ve raised three dogs of my favorite breed and given them all away.

People always ask me how I do it, or say that they could never give up a dog that they raised from eight weeks old to 18 months old. I always say that it’s all worth it when you see your dog matched up with a person who needs them, when you see how much the dog you loved and trained means to someone else. That’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. Raising Wilder and giving him away was incredibly hard. I’ve earned two black belts and applied to 11 colleges and walked a marathon with minimal training, but handing over my third puppy’s leash and walking away was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Wilder is a ray of sunshine, a big joyful goof of a dog who brings smiles to people’s faces wherever he goes. He likes toys that flop around, big sticks, and he can fit three tennis balls in his mouth at once. During my sophomore and junior years of college, we spent nearly every day together. He came with me to class, to work, to movie nights and birthday dinners and raucous college parties. From the moment I first saw him, Wilder made me a better person — kinder, more open, more responsible. As most dog people will agree, all dogs are good. But Wilder is better. Wilder is the best.

Wilder’s new family calls him “Wilder the Wonderful,” and they love him every bit as much as I do. Maybe even more. All I could ask for Wilder’s life is that he spends it with someone who loves him and appreciates him, and that’s what he gets to do now. He’ll spend every day with people who adore him and rely on him, people who see him for the incredible, loving dog he is. The paradox of it is this; I’m happy for him and his new family and I’m heartbroken for myself at the same time. But most of all, I’m proud of my sweet boy and the life he’s going to lead. Good boy, Wilder. You’re doing what you’re supposed to do.