I have woken up first every morning for eleven years. In the beginning it was just me and you. I would amble over to the coffee maker, and brew just enough for myself. I would hold my mug with both hands as if the warmth and smell would start to wake me before taking the first sip, and bring it back into bed. Every morning you would follow me into the bathroom and stand wagging your tail. I would cup your face and wipe away the sleepers from your eyes. You would lazily drink from the bottom of the shower. I would shrug and you would back out of the bathroom. Then there were three of us. I made more coffee and took a second mug out of the cabinet. You would wait for him to get out of bed and jump up next to me. Then there were four. Some nights I wouldn’t sleep more than a few hours and I would forget to make coffee. I would drink a stale cup rocking my whimpering son and you would lay on my feet or with your head in my lap. This is when I learned that love is not quantifiable. You loved all of us, and as our family grew so did your love. When I was pregnant again, I had to leave you, the baby was unwell and we needed to be near his doctors. You waited for us. For two years you waited and I knew you were getting older and tired. Your legs would give out from under you and you would cry out when you thought you were alone. When I came back, now we were five, and you loved us all. You let my children sit on top of you and pull your ears. When I put them to bed you would wait for me in my bed with your head on the pillow. When I woke up you would follow me into the bathroom, tail wagging and drink from the bottom of the shower, but more slowly now. I knew you had cancer before they told me. I could see you getting thinner, and I could feel the bones in your head when I rested my hand on it. You faded slowly and then all at once. You hadn’t moved all night, but that morning you walked into the bathroom. It was the last time I saw your tail wag, as I wiped the sleepers from your eyes. You drink from the bottom of the shower and collapsed at my feet. I carried you to the car and then to the table in the vet’s office where I once placed you as a squirming puppy. I held your head as it got heavy and your eyes blinked closed. Life can be felt, the second it’s there and the second it isn’t. Everything is the same and at the same time everything is different. I kissed your face and your eyes, vacant and dull. Now we are a family of four. You taught us all what love is and what goodbye means. We raised each other and for this I will be forever grateful. Our Good Girl.