Sep. 22 -- 'Seriously, tell me if I'm sending you too many pet grief Instagram reels, OK?" I said to my sister as I hugged her goodbye and tried to assure her once again that one day -- certainly not now, but one day -- she might find herself thankful for all of the pain she's feeling.

Thankful. That word seems so inappropriate for this situation.

Like when I said I'd be "happy" to stay the two- to three hours it would take for Charlie to be cremated so my sister could take his ashes home that day.

Obviously, I wasn't happy. None of us were as we mourned the loss of our third beloved dog in four years. Guinness in May 2020, Luna in April 2023, and now Charlie in September 2024.

Yet those are turns of phrase that spill out of our mouths before we can take them back -- when we're not sure what to say but still want the people we love to know that we will do whatever we can to help.

So maybe "thankful" is not the right word. "Grateful" probably isn't either.

But for the fortunate ones who have loved deeply and lost immensely, there does come an epiphanous and life-changing moment when we do find ourselves thankful and grateful for the pain that comes with grief and loss.

I count myself among the fortunate, and I wish that fortune upon others who've found themselves overcome with grief.

Somehow, the tears falling during the wracking and heaving sobs cleanse the soul and we begin to understand the source of this sadness, this pain, this longing and yearning for more time is love in its purest and most beautiful form.

I never want to be one of those people who say well-meaning but often mistimed cliches like "Everything happens for a reason" or "You'll be stronger for having gone through this" or "It'll get better with time."

Loss is loss. And loss comes with pain.

Whether or not that loss happened for a reason does not ease the pain. Nor should it.

The prospect of being stronger in the future -- a future that now and forever will be without the one we lost -- does not ease the pain. Nor should it.

Time does not ease the pain. But it does change it.

I'm not necessarily one who wants my pain eased. I don't want to run from my grief.

No. I want to run with it. I want to hike with it and swim with it and watch TV with it and cook with it and have a drink with it and be bored with it. I want to cry with it and laugh with it.

I want to live with and through my grief, and I want that for others, too -- especially the ones I love, like my sister who is coming to heartbreaking terms with an unfair reality that no longer includes the physical presence of her wondrous outpouring of unconditional love, Charlie.

Charlie was brought into our lives by the fates aligning.

It was Father's Day in 2010. I needed to run to Petsmart to get some food for Luna, and there was what looked like a makeshift adoption event set up right inside the door.

Of course, I stopped to look.

What I saw were these adorable brown and black and white speckled and spotted puppies.

An animal rescue based out of Minnesota was returning from a trip to Kentucky to pick the litter up from an overcrowded shelter. And they decided to stop at that particular Petsmart on that particular day when I needed to get Luna some food at that particular time.

I already had my dog, but something told me there was a pup amongst that litter meant to run with the Quealy pack.

So I called my sister, waking her up and telling her, "Hey, you need to get up here right now."

She needed a little more prodding and poking before she was convinced, but she got in her car and drove the six minutes where she would find the little one soon to be named Charlie. In that moment, their hearts and souls would connect and form an unbreakable bond that only strengthened since that day.

We called our mom, who was out doing a little last-minute grocery shopping, and told her to come over as soon as she could. When she walked in and saw Alyssa holding Charlie in her arms with him snuggled next to her neck, she couldn't help but cry.

Fourteen years after that day when we all said "hello" to Charlie for the first time, we all said our final goodbyes to the happiest dog to ever roam this Earth on four furry paws -- the dog we called Charlie and Charles, Chuckles and Knuckles, Chuck and Chunk.

Now our journey with the grief of his loss begins, and I hope we all find that our love for him not only stays with us but continues to grow.

And to good ol' Charlie, who was a gift every single day for 14 wonderful years, thank you. Thank you for being the best bud to all of us -- to Luna and Guinness and Saint and every dog, person and cat (except for one) you met along your way. Thank you for chasing deer with Luna and running on the beach with Guinness and putting up with Saint.

Thank you for the love you gave us, but especially for the love you gave my sister while you were here. Thank you for loving her, and I thank you in advance for this: that your continued love after your death finally proves to her -- without a shadow of a doubt -- that she is worthy and deserving of love.

I know that will be your final and everlasting gift.