Last week I turned 24. Three days later the dog my family adopted twelve years ago passed away. I don't want to say my dog's passing is fitting, but it is cruelly symmetrical.

I was the only one in the family who could spell her name: Guinevere, not Gwenevere or Guenevere, but yes, Gwenny. I remember I wanted a dog so bad at 12. Our golden retrievers passed away two years before, but I was born into their family; I had never raised a dog.