She had black hair, which shone like polished obsidian.

She had those eyes, those big brown eyes, which worldlessly spoke of comfort and understanding. A closeness of the soul, so painfully absent in most people.

She had endless patience and tolerance for children and young puppies. They could be dancing on top of her, tug her ears and whiskers or pull her tail, and all she'd do was lift her head, look at us with that expression of "Youngsters, huh?", roll her eyes and sigh. She never, ever, displayed anything other than unconditional kindness and gentleness.

When she was a little puppy, she would go on walks with us in the rain. As soon as we halted in order to let nature run its course, she would sit miserably on our feet and looking up at us as if to say "Yuck, water makes my feet wet".
Later, as she got older, she'd gleefully dive headfirst into the most disgusting mudpuddle she could find, going "Yay water!".

She stole unspeakable leftovers from the garbage can, and was ill because of it, but that never kept her from doing that time and time again.

Once, when I was out snorkeling, she swam all the way out of the bay to check out where I was and wether I was okay. She practically dragged me all the way back.

She never swallowed her water completely. After lapping from her bowl, she'd come lovingly and enthusiastically rubbing her face on your arm or leg and make quite a mess.

We took her for a ride yesterday. Had to. She'd become very thin these last few weeks, and all the joy of life had left her. She wasn't there anymore, but enough of her was left to make us decide to drive all the way to our friend-vet, and ask her to end her life.
And so, yesterday evening, somewhere around 8PM, she died in our arms. As all good dogs should.

Farewell, Tessa.
We miss you.