I've wanted to write about this for a long time, but I didn't know where to start. Now I do. I want to tell you about the last thing Bay did for me.

He started having seizures in May. A week apart, for a little while. I took him to the vet and they narrowed it down: brain tumor. He was almost 13. I knew it was coming.

There was a point I was sure it was the end - he had one while I was away visiting my parents. I've never felt a tear quite like that, this desire to stay with the people I love and see so little; and the overwhelming ache to be back there, with him. If these were the last days, how could I miss them? You can feel like that about everyone you love.

I got home and it looked dire. But the next day he was bouncing back. I fed him bagels and sushi for a week and he was normal; I figured I'd discovered the cure to doggie brain disease.

I'd wanted to get another dog for a while. Someone Baylor could coach, someone who could maybe absorb some of his phenomenal soul by osmosis. The feelings went into overdrive when Kyle got a puppy. And then Bay was okay for so long -- it was like it had all been a terrible dream.

Stalking the Humane Society websites was a hobby. I'd seen a hundred adorable little pittie pups before I saw her. I sent her picture to A, and it was decided in a weekend: if Bay was still okay at then end of it, if she was still in the shelter, it was happening.

He was and she was, and it did.

The people at the shelter said it was  one of the best dog introductions they'd ever seen. Bay was perfect even for Bay. So I took her home on a Thursday. Her name was Evony, we call her Willa now.

They had a great weekend. It was the 4th of July. They both like cuddles, and no one was afraid of fireworks.

Sunday 1PM: The two of them were great on walks together - generally, Bay tolerated no shenanigans, he was a great puppy mentor. We're walking up Tunlaw when two cardinals swoop down out of opposite trees to cross our path. I shudder. Multiple cardinals are a harbinger of death, says Irish Voodoo. I must have stopped, because the pups huffed and puffed and pulled me towards home.

Sunday 6PM: It's our evening walk, and Bay has a seizure, the first in over a month, right there on the sidewalk. I crouch by him and tell him this is nothing, this is fine, Willa sits down next to us, good as gold. Bay gets up and seems okay, but I am thinking about the cardinals.

Monday 6AM: I wake up to Bay seizing at the bottom of the bed. He comes out of it groggy and disoriented, he tries to climb over me and out the window. I bury my head inside my elbow and sob.

Monday 8AM, We go for a little walk and he has another seizure two blocks from the house, the worst yet, He bites his lip, the blood and foam mix with bits of dirt and I actually feel my heart break.

The rest was a fog, although I remember it easily now. It wasn't easy. Eleven years I spent with that little guy, eleven strange, beautiful, chaotic, hysterical, terrible, perfect years. I can now tell you what feels like to feel the life leave a loved one's body. I hate that it happened, but I'm glad that I was there.

I walked out of the animal hospital with his empty collar in my hand, and L was there, and Willa was there, and I held my new little puppy and I realized what Bay did.

He waited. Call me crazy, I don't care. I will always believe this. He waited until he knew I'd be okay without him.

I'm not, of course. But I get it, they can't stay forever.

Bay was something else. He was the most confident creature I've ever met. And that - that, I think, helped me grow out and up, and into a person who's actually ready to take care of something. Willa, this perfect, exasperating little puppy - she seems to be that something.

I don't know how I would have done this without her. Hyperbolic or no, I don't want to think about the alternative, my life not occupied with feeding and chasing and loving and snuggling this funny little pup. And he fucking knew that. What on Earth did we do to deserve dogs.

Thank you, Bay-man. There are dozens of us that will never get over you.

Mom most of all.