Sydney was a giant pain in the ass. Between her myriad health problems and the unusual behavior caused by her early trauma, the demands of caring for her sometimes seemed astronomical. But above all, Sydney was a survivor.

We found out about Sydney through a friend who rescues dogs. The SPCA had contacted her with a photo and description. Sydney was the last dog rescued from that puppy mill who had not yet found a permanent home. Since we had previously cared for two Jack Russells who had recently passed away, our friend thought we might be interested.

When I saw Sydney’s photo, I told my wife, “We have to adopt this dog because she is so ugly, nobody else ever will.”

We named her Sydney because her bulging eyes gave her a distinct resemblance to Sid the sloth from the Ice Age film franchise. I liked to call her “Miss Boo,” a shortened version of “Sydney-Bidney-Boo.”

When Sydney joined our happy home with her two doggy brothers, Ronin and Malu, it was obvious that she carried more than her fair share of emotional trauma from her years in the puppy mill. Her paw pads were smooth, and she had no idea how to walk on a leash. After even a short walk, her paws would bleed from chafing against the pavement. Doorways and stairs frightened her because she clearly had no experience navigating them. The only time she seemed comfortable was when she was curled up in a small space, such as her dog bed in the corner of my home office.

I worked from home at the time, doing marketing and cold-call sales, and decided she should sit on my lap during the day. Whenever I placed her there, she would immediately begin to tremble and try to jump off. So I held her with one hand while dialing the phone with the other. It took many hours before she stopped trembling and trying to escape at the first opportunity. Eventually, she grew accustomed to human contact—at least enough to tolerate me.

It took roughly four years for her even to begin acting like a normal dog. During that time, she socialized with our other two dogs and was treated to two walks a day on nearby mountain trails. She enjoyed being off-leash and would often “go on walkabout,” darting off the path to wander through the undergrowth. Many evenings, as the sun began to set, I found myself desperately calling her name while crashing through the jungle, hoping she would turn up before dark. I always found her. Eventually, she stopped running off and stayed with her two brothers in the pack.

Sydney really came alive whenever we visited our apartment on Taiwan’s coast. She loved the beach and playing in the waves. Her habit was to stroll into the water until it reached her chest, then sit there biting at the tiny whitecaps as they approached her.

Once she had grown comfortable with human contact, Sydney received an endless supply of cuddles, kisses, and hugs, all of which she enjoyed immensely and learned to return in spades. Her heart hadn’t been broken; her love battery had simply needed recharging. She had gone from a life of struggles to a life of snuggles.

Every night at bedtime, she would trot into my son’s room, jump onto the bed, and wait for him to join her. She would snooze all night, occasionally snuffling and snoring, wrapped in his arms.

We never knew exactly how old Sydney was, but during one of her many late-life health crises, the vet estimated that she was 16. First, she developed pancreatitis, which meant she could no longer process animal fat. We had to feed her special vegan dog food that was quite expensive and available only from the vet’s office. But she was worth it.

Then she was attacked twice during our morning walks by a neighbor’s dog that had gotten off its leash. Both attacks required minor surgery, followed by the cone of shame.

One night, she began gasping and panting. She kept sitting and standing, unable to get comfortable. I had a feeling that this was the end, so I lifted her onto the bed beside me and gently stroked her as she panted and shuddered. I told her how much we loved her and how grateful we were for her many years of companionship as part of our family. Whenever it seemed as though she was finally settling down, the panting and shuddering would begin again. As the end drew near, I was determined not to let her die alone.

Finally, held firmly in my arms, she breathed her last.

And then she peed all over me.

I miss Sydney every day, and I’m certain I always will. But I am proud of the life we gave her. Who could have imagined that she would go from a life of pain and suffering to sleeping safely in the arms of a teenage boy on a warm, comfortable bed?

Sydney taught me that even the deepest wounds can begin to heal with enough love, patience, and time.

Bye-bye, Miss Boo. You were the best teacher I’ll ever have.