Only dogs count as best friends.

Yesterday I got a phone call at 7 in the evening, a phone cal in which it sounded like someone had died.

Today someone did.

Today we put down my mastiff of over four years.

But dogs aren't just dogs, as some might say. They don't call a dog a (wo)man's best friend for nothing.

I can't count the times on both my hands where I've been crying in front of someone I considered a really good friend, couldn't count the times where I was upset and not a single person asked me why or the times where everyone in a room ignored my visibly upset manner -- tears and horrible sobbing included.

I couldn't lift a single finger for the times I was upset around my dog and she didn't notice. She couldn't ask me why, couldn't ask me what, but she could do the one thing that so many of my "friends" couldn't do: She could tell me that everything was going to be alright.

Even though her breath smelled absolutely terrible and her slobber would sometimes sink deep into my pores, I always knew that she wanted to make sure I was doing okay, always knew that seeing her would raise my spirits from the ground to the roof.

No one else could ever do that.

I could walk into ballroom practice, into my apartment, into work, and have invisible tears.

Writing this, trying not to cry, trying to hide a grieving process from so many people at the loss of my best friend, only makes me realize that I can go home now and cry and not have that comfort.

Only a dog owner would understand that never-ending love and affection. Understand that the loss of someone that has helped you survive so many days can create a massive sorrow that weighs on your heart.

And weigh it does.