I remember the day we brought her home. I was seven years old when we picked her up from the shelter. My mom even let me sit in the back seat with her.

My mom and I went back and forth the whole ride home about what we were going to call her. Despite her being completely black, my seven-year-old brain didn’t want to call her Midnight or anything that represented darkness.

I wanted to call her Sally.

That was 13 years ago.

My once pitch-black beauty is now grey in the face. She doesn’t go up and down the stairs as fast anymore. She’s deaf, and her eyes are getting cloudy. She used to stay in the yard, and now she tends to roam without realizing it.

In October, we found out her kidneys are failing.

The vet told us she has about a year left at best. I bawled when I found out. My childhood pet is dying, and I’m not even home to spend the last part of her life with her.

Since I don’t live at home anymore, I cherish the times I get to see her. But I also hate it.

Every time I see her she’s thinner than the time before. She doesn’t seem as conscious of her surroundings. I can tell she still knows who I am, but she doesn’t stay focused on me like she used to.

Watching my beautiful girl get old like this kills me.

We, humans, are our pets’ entire world; the only thing they will ever know. But for us, they only exist for a snippet of our lives. Granted, 13 is pretty old for a dog.

I knew the day would come that I would have to say goodbye.

But now that that day is closer than it ever has been, I’m horrified. It’s even scarier that I’m not home. I’m dreading the day I get the phone call from my mom that she’s gone.

People who don’t have animals don’t understand just how much they mean to us. They’re part of the family, and it hurts just as much as watching an older relative grow old.

Watching them forget. Watching them fail at things they used to love doing. Watching everything that comes with getting old.

She used to sleep on my bed with me. She even would put her head on my pillow like a person. We used to race to my room every night to see who could get on my bed the fastest.

It’s inevitable, I know.

There’s nothing we can do to stop them from leaving us earlier than we want. All we can do is love them to our fullest extent and make sure they’re not suffering.

As far as we can tell, she’s not.

She still gets random bursts of energy and runs around the yard like she did when she was four. She will still chew on tennis balls sometimes. She still dive-bombs into the snow and shovels it with her nose.

She’s slowing down, but sometimes I can still see the puppy we brought home 13 years ago.

And for now, I will cherish those moments. When I get out of the car and she stops and stares at me, then wiggles and takes off to come say hi. For now, I will continue to be her whole world until she is no longer in mine.