She walked into my life 15 years ago. Actually, she was carried in a box that once held six rolls of fax paper, brought by a friend to my office when I was in the midst of a consuming depression.

“You need this,” she said, handing me the box.

Looking inside, I saw a small bundle of fur and feet and my heart began to melt. Lifting the tiny black-and-white puppy out of the box, I nuzzled her against my neck, and she proceeded to slather me with kisses. My life was immediately and forever changed. It’s still amazing to me that such a small box could contain such an incredible amount of love.

During the 15 years that followed, Inky was a constant friend — the backseat driver in my little convertible, a traveling companion to points all along the East Coast and an office-mate at two different jobs, where she would sleep at my feet unless she was off visiting my co-workers and begging for treats.

Inky was there the day I decided to leave (temporarily, as it turned out) the newspaper business to work with my father in the construction industry. And she was there when I learned that we’d lost him at the age of 55 to a sudden heart attack as he walked off the golf course. Her unselfish and unflagging love helped sustain me in the weeks that followed the terrible news.

She was there when I proposed marriage to my beautiful wife, and she bounced along the beach in November 2001, as a minister conducted the wedding ceremony. As a part of that celebration, we had friends throw flowers into the surf as they remembered friends and family members who weren’t there to share the joyful weekend. As each person walked to the water’s edge and tossed in a flower or two, Inky followed, gleefully bounding into the water to grab the flowers in her mouth and carry them back to shore.

Through so many of life’s joys and sorrow, Inky was right there by my side. On Saturday, that changed as I sat on the floor of her veterinarian’s office, cradling her head in my lap as she was put to rest, trying to comfort my sobbing wife and to find a way to breathe around the massive lump that had formed in my throat.

In recent months, Inky’s age had begun to catch up with her, and her quality of life had diminished significantly. Arthritis had made it painful for her to stand or sit, and she had lost nearly a third of her weight, making her muscles weak and unsteady. Her incontinence could not be controlled with medication. Finally, in her last weeks, she had no interest in being outside.

Relieving her of her misery was, without question, the humane and loving thing to do. Our strong bond — and her constant faithfulness to me — obliged me to make that hard choice. Still, though, I’d give up just about anything for one more day with her on the beach, one more slurp across the face, one more hour with all 60 pounds of her plopped in my lap like a baby.

God, this has been a tough week.