When I was little, I liked being an only child, the sole recipient of my parents’ attention. But when my parents separated when I was in second grade and my mom and I had to move to a more affordable house in a different neighborhood, being an only child felt lonely. My mom sensed how hard the change had been on me and thought I needed a friend to help me through it.

She decided on a Shih Tzu. My mom contacted breeders who told her that their dogs had just had a litter of puppies. My mom bought books about the breed, which I began reading incessantly. I even picked a name — Abbie.

We planned to pick up the puppy on the way to my grandma’s house. After driving through miles of winding country roads for what seemed like forever, we arrived at the breeder’s. I was nervous. Before then, dogs scared me. Our next-door neighbors had a rust-colored golden retriever who jumped up and slobbered on me.

But what I saw at the breeder’s house was not scary at all — little funny-looking long-haired creatures scampering around. The breeder greeted us and explained that most of the puppies had been sold; only the runt was left. We asked if we could see her. The first time I saw her furry little 4-pound body wobble around on the floor, I knew she was the one. She was white with black ears and had a black spot on her back. The breeder asked if we wanted to wait until the next litter, but I had to have that one, right then. My mom did the paperwork while I sat on the floor holding my new dog.

On the way to my grandma’s house, Abbie snoozed on my lap while warm sun poured in through the car windows. We weren’t sure the last time she went to the bathroom, so we stopped at the old Howard Johnson Hotel on Highway 54 near the Lake of the Ozarks. My mom put the tiny bright pink collar and leash I had picked out on Abbie. We took her for her first walk. Then we got back in the car and went to grandma’s.

At my grandma’s, I eagerly showed off my new puppy. She was so adorable. The only problem was everybody else thought so, too. For the next few hours, all my grandparents and mom talked about was the new puppy. They took pictures and played with her. For the first time, I wasn’t the center of attention and I felt jealous of the attention focused on Abbie.

When it was time to go to bed and my mom tucked me in, she could tell something was wrong. I knew it too. I blurted out, “I want to give her back.” My mom couldn’t believe it. I knew she was hurt. “But I got her for you,” she said. She told me to sleep on it and we would talk the next day.

In the morning I felt the same way, but we took Abbie home anyway. When I took her out in the front yard, the neighborhood kids wanted to play with her. Because I was new in the neighborhood, I welcomed the attention. Abbie might not be so bad after all, I thought.

Over the years I realized that I didn’t love Abbie for the attention she got me; the company of an animal has more value than just making me friends. But I had no idea how close we’d become until I came close to losing her. During Thanksgiving break my sophomore year of college, Abbie wasn’t acting like her usual self. After my mom took her outside one day, Abbie ran up the stairs from our basement, wobbled around like the first day I saw her and fainted. “What’s wrong with Abbie?” I exclaimed. Abbie wasn’t getting up. I began bawling, ran into my room, shut the door and sat on my bed. I couldn’t bear to see her like that. She woke up, but wouldn’t get up. My mom asked for my help to take Abbie to the animal hospital, but I couldn’t. I locked my door and buried my face in my pillow while my mom scooped up her limp body in a towel to take her to the vet.

My mom said that after just a few minutes in the car, Abbie was back to her old self, trying to look out the window. But the vet told us she had an enlarged heart, not uncommon for her breed, and that we would have to give her pills for the rest of her life. Otherwise, she was fine, so we followed the doctor’s orders.

I had no idea when I went home for Easter my junior year that it would be the last time I’d ever see her.

About a week after returning to school, my mom called and said Abbie was getting sick. I thought it was no big deal, because she’d always had allergies and caught the doggie flu when I was in fifth grade. It wasn’t until about a week later, when I had just settled down at a computer in Anschutz Library to work on a project when I got the call. My mom’s voice quivered on the other line. “What’s wrong?” I asked. I’m not sure how she said it because I was in shock, but the message was clear: Abbie was gone. My mom had the vet put her to sleep that morning because her organs were failing and the vet said there was nothing he could do. It was Abbie’s 13th birthday. I quickly packed my things at the library and walked home. I sat on the futon in my room and let it all out. I felt like I had lost a piece of myself. My mom took it pretty hard, too. When I went home that summer, things weren’t the same without Abbie. Now that my mom was all alone, I tried to convince her to get another dog to keep her company, like she did for me when I felt lonely. But she insisted she wasn’t ready. Finally, over fall break, we adopted a Maltese puppy my mom named Bailey. She isn’t Abbie, but she is adorable and keeps my mom company, like Abbie did for me.