The death of a loved one is never something easy to deal with. It's even more difficult, however, when it's someone you've shared a bed with for eight years.

This is clear to see in the Snyder household today. Our beloved Shetland sheepdog (or Sheltie), Riley, passed away. He had been missing since Monday, after my dad let him and our other Sheltie, Maggie, out to "go potty" - forgetting the gate was open.

On Wednesday, I decided to go home to my parents' house. As I pulled into the driveway, my father was arriving home on his motorcycle. Before I could get out of the car, I saw him fling his helmet across the yard. And before I could ask questions, Dad had gone inside the house and come back out with a trash bag and a box. A closer look and I saw the familiar blue-striped collar on the handlebars of Dad's motorcycle. I knew.

He had found Riley.

I got in the truck with dad, the box, and the bag, looked at him and said, "Let's go bring him home, Daddy." (Yes, I'm 21 and still call my father 'daddy.')

We'd had Riley for almost eight years. Shortly before I started eighth grade, Mom brought him home and hid him in the bathroom for me and my brother to find. He was tiny for a Sheltie, always was. At his biggest he only weighed about eight pounds. I was the one who named him. Mom didn't like the name Riley at first, but after about a week, we couldn't imagine him being called anything else.

Wherever I went, Riley and Maggie went. Riley loved going for rides, so I'd often go driving in the country, or run uptown with him sitting in my lap looking out the window. In the summertime, it wasn't unusual to see me and my parents walking our dogs; Maggie was always a good dog and heeled, but Riley was running out in front, desperately trying to betray the retractable leash.

I adored my dogs. Maggie has always been "my" dog, whereas Riley was the family sweetheart. I had my senior pictures taken with them. Maggie was my dog, but Riley...Riley was my parents' other child.

And now here I was, on the side of State Route 18, barehanded and picking up the tattered, liquefied remains of the animal who had slept at the foot my bed, greeted me at the door, and tossed the pillows off beds and couches for eight years. I could not stand the idea of our beloved family pet, my Riley, sitting as a bloody carcass on the side of the road for vultures to come. Dad and I picked up every last piece of him. Every sinew, every bloody snatch of fur. Traffic didn't matter as we picked him up. We were taking him home.