Our dog is sick. We don’t even know what that means just yet, but we know she’s far from the spry days of her youth.

It might be cancer. It might just be old age. Fifteen years is a hell of a run for any dog. Look May right in the face, though, and you’ll see that she’s not done yet. Not by a long shot.

I’ve never been comfortable with the idea that people “own” their dogs. There’s so much more to it than that, even if I can’t quite say what it is.

What I do know is that we don’t “own” May. I’m not saying anything cheesy like “she owns us,” because that’s not it. We all simply belong together, and May knows it.

May might even deserve a bit of credit for my marriage. Years ago, early in our relationship, I met my future wife at some event one night. She had brought May with her. May is usually pretty standoffish in public, but when she saw me, she jumped up excitedly and started to run towards me. “She knows you!” exclaimed the woman I’d one day marry. I’ve never asked her, but I like to think that obtaining May’s seal of approval that night helped my case.

There will be a time for more reminiscing. I hope it’s not for a long time yet, but we all know that day is coming. There are certain facts of life, certain inevitabilities, that we can’t hold back, so we have to enjoy what time we have.

For at least fifteen years, our world has been graced by a grumpy, grouchy, gassy, beautiful hairball with an infinite amount of love to give. She’s been through several kinds of hell, and has always come back with a smile and a wag. And she’s not packing it in just yet.

Her name is May, and she’s our dog, and she’s a fucking badass. I just thought you should know.