We'd always had dogs growing up -- our first was a basset hound, and by the time she went she'd lived a long life. Our second dog was a Newfoundland and we got her when I was in 7th or 8th grade. My parents and I drove three hours to go pick her up from a farm and she was the last of her litter to go -- she was a tiny little girl and cried all the way home.

Flash forward five(?) years later and she's running outside in our backyard when her ACL tears. For those of you who don't know about newfoundlands, they're huge dogs -- she was about 110 lbs at this point, which is pretty average for the breed. We knew this was bad. So, we take her to the vet and we try our hardest to keep her inside, laying down.

My dad and I were at the movies when my sister texted me. We let Pearlie outside to go pee before bed and she ran out, happy to be free of the chains of being indoors all day. Tears her other ACL.

We took her to the vet next morning and they basically told our parents we would need to a) get her a doggy wheelchair and completely remodel our deck/backyard to be doggy-wheelchair accessible (in the middle of winter, mind you), and one of my parents would most likely have to take a couple of weeks off from work to rehabilitate her, or b) put her down.

I will never forget the sound in my dad's voice when he called me after the vet appointment that morning. He didn't even have to tell me the decision that they made because I could tell by the shake in his throat that it was done.

Losing a pet is losing a family member. It's a part of you that you never really get back, especially when they're taken before it's their time. I still miss taking naps up against her gigantic body, finding her fur in the randomest places, and the way she played in the snow as a baby. I miss her every single day.

I'm so sorry for your loss, OP.