The first time I met Lord Percy Hamish Baltimore he jumped up and split my lip.

It didn’t matter that I was sitting in a puffy lounge chair and trying not to present nervous energy; he was a chaotic fuzzball who didn’t realize he was a good 60 pounds of solid muscle. I made a mental note – we’ll have to work on that, I thought as I tasted the blood in my mouth. What I didn’t realize at the time was how much that would go both ways.

Is it weird to say that one of the most deeply felt bonds I've had with anyone was with a dog? How did that happen? I went in knowing the logistics of having a dog but I had no real frame of reference on how deeply the feelings could develop. Was I lulled into it by his hilariously giant and blocky head? Or maybe the private swell of pride I'd feel watching us work on training him from a whirlwind of energy to a dog who'd pose quietly on the street while ambulances flew by and kids ran and screamed around him? How other dog owners would marvel as Percy sat there, lit up by flashes from the camera and say out loud "My dog would never be able to do that"?

Did part of it come from long road trips across the vast flatness of the Midwest, just the two of us, ending up in places far removed from urban landscapes, where we'd spend evenings after dinner watching stars (actual stars, things people never see anymore) slowly spin above? Maybe some of it came from watching him weave himself into the fabric of the neighborhood, how he knew which shops had dog treats and how he'd subtly steer us towards them on walks, or the way he'd always stop expectantly outside The Corner Bar, wondering if we'd go inside to watch a hockey game, and to which he'd get a steady stream of popcorn from not only me, but neighbors who'd be there as well.

He knew which coffee places were the good ones, and all it took was me pointing to the bench outside Wormhole Coffee, at which point he'd clamor up and sit like a person. He'd wait patiently while I picked up a cup of some single origin as well as water and a dog biscuit for him, and as the sun went down, we'd sit and watch Wicker Park go by. Inevitably, someone would point out how adorable it was that we were sitting across from each other like best friends talking about how our day went.

Of course it was all of that, and more. Training him not to split my lip taught me patience. Walking him around the neighborhood kept me engaged with the community. Working on having him accept strangers in a friendly way kept me social. We both worked on improving each other.

There's a a huge gap walking around the neighborhood without him. Now there aren’t any more gentle pulls towards the park, or Marine Layer for fancy treats, or to one of a million bushes he'd need to carefully inspect.

When Percy passed, how could there be any doubt that a part of me went with him? But just like all the training over the years, it went both ways: I’m a different person from that guy with the split lip. I'm a better person… because I carry part of him with me.