My husband found her on Craigslist. Maybe the owner was a veteran, or maybe just wore camo pants; my memory isn't the freshest. What we did know is that he got the dog before learning that his apartment complex didn't allow animals. He tearfully asked us to take care of her, send a picture or two, and after we gave him 50 bucks, he trotted away.

We took her back to our apartment, which also didn't allow dogs.

We had talked about getting a dog, but I believed it would be when we had finalized a plan to move out of the complex and buy a house. So I thought.

There was an obsession in my husband to try and make me happy, even though we had a toddler, hadn't yet found a house, and would be moving ourselves and my mom into this new place, which would turn out not to have flooring or air conditioning.

One of the photos hanging on our wall is our daughter, still in diapers, squealing in glee at what would become our backyard with our dog, as a puppy, looking up at her adoringly.

This obsession for happiness was carried over into our dog, who seemed to want to make us happy. She never chewed on anything. She learned to go out to use the facilities quickly. She realized with abject dismay that her size was detrimental to knocking down toddlers, and as my daughter grew and another human puppy joined, she took to walking a wide berth around our son.

Dogs weave themselves into our memories without even trying that hard. Author Arthur Conan Doyle said that a dog reflects family life, and if that's true, then ours is a very laid-back, if slightly neurotic, existence.

She has vices, as we all do, and hers is joining the neighborhood dog pack chorus and standing under our bedroom window in the morning to do so. She isn't besties with other dogs, enjoys egging them on and standing behind me to have me fight her fight, but strangely really enjoys cats. She'll take turns sleeping on the beds of the children, with both then telling me that their bedsheets have started to smell like dog.

And she will zoom out of the sliding glass door, racing until she stepped wrong last week and tore her ACL.

We hoped it was a sprain or even a break. But her joyful hops had worn out one knee, with the other likely also close. Her age, just nine, and the onset of hip dysplasia shown from the X-rays came with a verdict that the worst part of sharing companionship with a dog is closer than we'd like. And now, it's a lesson we need to share with our kids who still see death as an abstract and not the finality that haunts us all.

I recently heard someone say that the deconstruction of their path from formal religion came from when their pastor told them that animals didn't go to heaven. There's no religion for me that would bar the entrance of any family, even if they were covered in fur.

Even though spirits may just be energy, I do hope that there will be a cadre of animals helping me cross the bridge, go through the gates, or ride along in the boat across the Styx. I know for sure there will be a black dog, a brown dog, a grey cat, a little mouse and at some point, a black and white Lab-ish/pit-ish mix who will finally be able to run as fast as she wants, knocking down angels who might be in her way to get to me.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at [email protected]. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: at Unsplash