For Mary “Poochie” Harrington, and her mother, Mary. Because no parent should have to bury a child. Ever.

Today, I lost a friend. My dear, stubborn, funny, fierce, wonderfully unfiltered friend.

Her name was Mary. But if you knew her—really knew her—you called her Pooch or Poochie. And if you were lucky enough to know her well, then you knew that name came wrapped in loyalty, fierce honesty, and the kind of friendship that does not flinch at your worst moments. The kind of friendship that dares you to do better without ever threatening to leave if you fall short.

I have sat here for hours trying to start this tribute. There are no tidy paragraphs that can capture thirty conversations crammed into a Thursday night call. There is no elegant way to say that I am devastated. So I will begin with truth.

Mary loved me. In ways that did not flinch when I was a hot mess, when I came storming in with drama trailing behind me like a busted kite, when my decisions were questionable enough to warrant an intervention by a squad of therapists and two exorcists. She loved me anyway. She let me flop onto her couch after some fresh foolishness and still greeted me with a sincere smile—before she launched into the lectures. Before the “Now what in the hell were you thinking?” Before the classic Poochie sigh and her patented silence, the kind that made you confess just to fill the air.

But she always—always—asked for my side of the story first.

That is how she loved. She listened before she judged. She waited before she weighed in. But do not get it twisted: she would still read you like a book, underline the most embarrassing parts, and hand it back with sticky notes and a raised eyebrow.

Our friendship began in a halfway house. From day one, it was clear that we were not going to do that place again. Not because of the rules. Not because of the guards. But because friendship requires presence. And presence is damn near impossible through prison bars.

So we made a vow—no more getting in trouble. No more disappearing from each other’s lives. We had something real. Something that needed showing up for. And we meant it.

We honored that vow with weekly Harris Pizza. Let me tell you about Harris Pizza. It is not just pizza. It is therapy, sustenance, sacred ritual, and competitive sport. One week she challenged me to a “pizza off.” We invited three friends each. We devised a strategy. Thin crust, thick crust, her favorite, my favorite, two voted in by the “esteemed” panel (read: a bunch of hungry folks ready to judge like they were on Top Chef). It was absurd and it was perfect. Harris Pizza ruled the night, garnering even my vote!

We were absurd and perfect.

Thursday nights were ours. Late-night check-ins filled with tears, laughter, goal-setting, accountability, and memes that would make the devil blush. We evaluated where we had crushed it and where we had stumbled. No performance, no pretending. Just real, raw life. She was my late-night truth serum. I was hers. Together, we kept each other honest—and that is a kind of love this world rarely sees.

Now she is gone.

And I hate that sentence with every cell in my body. I hate it because we had an agreement. When the time came—if the time came—it was supposed to be me who said it first.

“JT,” she told me the last time we spoke, “I’ve got bees in my bonnet. And I love you to infinity x 10.”

That was our code. “Bees in my bonnet” meant we were done fighting cancer. It meant, “I am tired.” It meant, “I know.” It meant, “This is the goodbye we never agreed to say out loud.”

She said it first. That was not the deal.

Mary had a cat she adored more than most people. She had a laugh that took some time to earn—but once you did, it was addictive. Her humor crept up slowly, like a smirk in a mirror. And when it landed, it landed. She was a hoot. But not a performative one. Hers was the kind of humor that came out when she felt safe. And if she laughed with you? You were in.

She loved cooking. She loved horror movies—especially zombies, which is ironic because she was the least dead-inside person I have ever met. Even with death circling her life like a vulture. Even when cancer was a third presence in every conversation. Even when her energy flagged or her body betrayed her. She was alive. Present. Stubbornly so.

Mary was not afraid of dying. She and I had that in common. We had both been told we were going to die. More than once. So we talked about it. Openly. Loudly. With sarcasm and wine and spreadsheets and jokes about who would haunt who. Death was never a stranger in our friendship. But neither was hope. Or spite. Or the will to live in spite of everything.

And she did live. She loved. She protected her friends like they were made of glass and gold. She made room for our broken parts. She believed in second chances and messy progress. She let you crash, but she made damn sure you got back up. She was not perfect. Thank God. She was real.

Today I am hurting. I miss her. I miss the cat who hated everyone but me. I miss the smell of her couch. I miss the Thursdays and the eye rolls and the way she would yell, “Oh hell no,” when I told her about my latest romantic detour into bad decision territory.

I will never again eat Harris Pizza without thinking about her. But I promise this—if I ever do another pizza showdown, I will call it The Poochie Invitational. And she will win. Every time.

Mary Harrington, Poochie, was one of those rare people who never demanded perfection. Only presence. Only truth. Only love, when it counted the most.

And she never said goodbye. Neither do I.

So here it is, my friend.

Until later.
You’ve got bees in your bonnet no more.
And I love you to infinity x 10.

I will be taking a couple of days off. My readers will still get to read posts I have scheduled weeks in advance; however, there will not be multiple posts every day, as is typical with me. I will be back in the groove of things on Monday.

Until then, take care of yourselves. And if you have a Poochie in your life—call them. Today. Bring them pizza. Laugh until it hurts. Cry if you need to. And never, ever say goodbye.