Goodbye Connie

My old dog died this week, so I am all weepy and reflective. 
She wasn't the best tempered dog in the world. She wasn't the brightest dog in the world. We hadn't actually lived together for a long time. 
But... she was loyal and affectionate (in her own way), and an inspiration in her unswerving devotion and dedication to the retrieval of tennis balls. 
I didn't say goodbye. 
She lived at my mum and dads in her later years, to begin with because my beloved and I were overseas and later because she was not at her best around small children. Whenever we visited mum and dad's Connie was locked in my parents bedroom so she didn't snap when subjected to over-enthusiastic toddler and baby dog-handling. So I haven't really said a proper hello to her in awhile. 
She had been looking old and stiff for a long time. 
I got her when I returned from a trip to Europe when I was eighteen. So she was well into her nineties when she died. 
We were best friends all through my twenties, through uni, through my first evil boyfriend and through slightly less evil boyfriends, through my first jobs. An (evil) ex- boyfriend once asked who I loved more, him or the dog and I just laughed at him. 
She came with me for solitary mid-night swims, she walked with me every evening, she ensured I exercised every day (by barking at me solidly when I got home from work until we headed out) she growled at stray noises in the night when I lived alone. She is in my wedding photos. 
The day she died she spent all day in her basket and then in the evening when my dad went through to watch tv she hobbled over to sit with him, and then she died. 
Goodbye Connie, I miss you. 
I hope you are chasing lots of lovely tennis balls in heaven.