A month has passed since I said goodbye to Molly. I remember the day I brought her home from the shelter like it was yesterday. Within the first three hours in her new home, she bit me—hard. In her defense, she’d tried to run away, and I had no choice but to corner her and pick her up off the street. I knew exactly what was coming, but I was already in love and couldn’t bear to lose her. The scars have faded, but when I run my fingers over my hand, I can still feel them.

Not much was known about her 2.5 years before she became my beloved best friend. All I knew was that her life before hadn’t been easy. I vowed to give her the best life I could, and I hope she thought it was as wonderful as I did. Not many dogs get to experience 17 years, and I feel so lucky she shared almost all of them with me.

Grief is a mercurial beast, with each moment bringing a rush of emotions, some I never expected to feel. Not a day has passed without tears, guilt, relief, anger, and a deep, consuming sorrow. There are small pockets of joy here and there—I expect there will be more one day. But the only constant is an inexplicable hollowness that lingers.

I’m going to miss so much about her: the sassy attitude she’d flash when it was time to eat and her little front-foot hops as soon as I agreed; her freight-train snoring, an impressive sound from such a small creature; the proud strut she had when we walked through the neighborhood. Her “contentment ceremonies” were the best—she’d rub her face all over the carpet, bury herself under a blanket, then bark with this bold satisfaction. But more than anything, I’ll miss the way she was always just… there beside me.

I feel lucky to have so many photos to look back on. She’s in every corner of my world, forever.