I could tell you about her gorgeous fur, kind eyes, and how her butt shaked when she greeted you.
I could tell you about the rituals she loved most—from morning poops, to house sprints when the mailman (finally) arrived, to evening walks… the ones we took religiously and only ever missed one handful of times.
I could tell you about how much she hated other dogs, but how much she loved other people—and how much I could relate to that, but only flipped in reverse.
I could tell you about the time she busted through the front window and aggressively chased a little dog named Rupert and in the same breath tell you about how god damn good she was—an absolute angel who spent most of her days alone, while I worked, and patiently kept herself preoccupied, radiating with love, keeping the house warm for my return.
I could tell you about how it was just her and I… how it was we who made our house into a home… and how proud I was to have her as a dog and companion… how proud I was to introduce her and show her off to everyone I knew.
…But I know that, to those of you who never met her, she’ll only ever be just another dog.
Which is okay. I wouldn’t wish grief on any of you.
…But do me a favor and remember: the difference between Stella and you, and Stella and me, is the time we spent together—something that can’t be explained or substituted—something that’ll be just as true for you and yours, and them and me.