I just handed off my beloved dachshund, Sir Bosworth Longfellow, to get cremated. He was 14 years, 5 months, and 8 days old.

My best friend.

Bosworth, commonly known as “Bos,” came into my life at just the right time. I didn’t seek him out. In fact, I had no say in his arrival. My grandfather, saddened by how upset I’d been over the recent death of our family’s dachshund Mojo, took it upon himself to get me a new puppy. In the span of the day, he found a prospect, made contact with the breeder, and drove 240 miles round-trip to pick him up.

I’ll never forget where I was when I heard the news. I was walking through the West Mall on the University of Texas campus when my phone rang. When I answered, my mother’s voice said, “PawPaw just bought you a puppy. He’s here in my lap, and he is precious.” I was in shock. I’d wanted a puppy, but I was a sophomore in college who lived in a run-down apartment with a roommate and her cat. Still, I was elated. I turned a corner and ran into some friends. “I just got a puppy,” I exclaimed.

I made the 200-mile drive to my parents’ house that night. When I walked in, Bosworth was cuddled up with my mom in my family’s iconic blue La-Z-Boy recliner, tiny and precious and dubious all at once. He was 70% ears, and had the softest fur I’d ever touched. He immediately leapt into my outstretched arms. My mother and I would soon find out that we were the only two people he’d let hold him.

I was in a situation where I couldn’t take Bosworth back to Austin with me, so my mother graciously agreed to keep him until I moved into a dog-friendly living situation. I was his city mama; she was his country mama. Over the next three months, I drove to my parents’ house every weekend to spend time with my baby.