When I first came into the room, I didn't know you were dead. I called your name, and you didn't move. I figured it was just your hearing; it had been deteriorating for the last year. It was dark, but I realized that you weren't breathing, and I couldn't hear you.

"No," I said adamantly. I fell on my knees and crawled to you where you law on your pillow bed. You were stiff but not completely cold. I put an arm under your neck and tucked my head against your chin and your chest. I curled against you and cried for half an hour. I told you again and again that I loved you too much for you to die, that there was too much love in the house for you to leave.

You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You were my best friend, my 'bro.' You always had my back even when you were being aloof. When you were a young, you were like my little sister. When you got older, you were my twin sister. When you reached old age, you found a deep serenity that affected everyone around you, and you were my big sister.

We took you to your favorite place. It was raining harder than I've ever seen it rain. I found a place for you, and my parents and I dug the hole. The earth was wet, and we had dug a large, deep hole for you in no time. What could I say for a eulogy? How could I possibly honor your years as part of my family?

I could only think of one thing to say: "I love you."
Mother said, "We love you."
Father said, "Good dog, Star. Good dog."

And we buried you. I think about you every day. I still love you.