She had a decidedly off-center smile, partly due to that one jagged incisor, which jutted out unceremoniously.

I called it her snaggle tooth.

But that was sort of the least of her worries, given that her oversized tongue NEVER FIT INTO HER MOUTH. Literally.

The result? Her pie-hole rarely closed completely and her toothy smile sloped slightly southward.

My sweet, not-so-little pup, Monnie.

Her official name was Monica Arleen Kimerer. And if I’m being technical, she really wasn’t mine — we got her for Kyle when he was 11 years old.

We’d lost his last puppy to a rare form lymphoma a few years prior. Pure agony.

So we surprised him with some fib about trekking out to a new country restaurant, or sumthin’. I don’t remember the lie precisely, just its yield.

Which was one elated little boy. “You mean … she’s mine?” he asked mushy Mom as she nodded and sobbed.

She was immediately a free spirit. OK, fine, a rabble-rouser; but only in the most playful, loving ways on the planet.

Monnie was part of our family for approximately four minutes before she tried wandering out into the world on her own … and right off the stoop into the bushes.

And there wasn’t a dull moment from then to the end.

Monica Arleen (named after my Gram and Mom) hated a couple of things: humidity, the hose, smoke alarms, being crated. She also despised pretzels, aka, the only foodstuff created for any species that she patently rejected with full malice and zero contrition.

More than anything, she one bazillion to the infinite power hated fireworks.

But, at her core, she was just a big, brown buncha brindled boxer benevolence. Monnie loved so very many things, like:

• Hiking in the woods and swimming in the creek at camp;

• Chasing. As in, deer, bunnies, squirrels, birds, butterflies … and, like, the wind;

• Rough-housing or playing Frisbee and catch, though there was always a high risk of nonreturn on those last two investments;

• Food. Any food. All food. Especially meat. And cheese. And pasta. And bread — mostly when slathered with gobs of peanut butter. She sucked down Milk-Bone treats faster than Usain Bolt runs to his mailbox;

• Gnawing her way through random items, such as candles, wicker baskets, tablecloths, the Christmas tree, my $200 silk Pashmina … Seriously;

• Her big cousin / intermittent caretaker Kelly. Her Papa K. Our mailman. In fact, she loved the humans. All of them. But most of all, HERS. Monnie adored Kyle with every fiber of her being. Other than me, she was always the most heartbroken whenever he headed back to college.

Who will mope with me now? Who’ll be here to slobber my walls, nose-print my windows, and poo-bomb my front walkway?

I don’t have another girl in the house — or someone to share my birthday week, WFH workdays, baked potatoes and middle name.

What can I say? There’s a gaping hole here at Casa Kimerer … and an even bigger one in its collective heart.

I’m so glad that, after that last burst of independence (running away), we finally got her home to cross the Rainbow Bridge peacefully.

A million thanks to all who helped us search those agonizing 17 hours. And to the scuzz-bag who tried scamming us, there’s a special version of Cujo awaiting you where dog haters go, capisce?

Meanwhile, all dogs go to heaven, where there’s copious sunshine with a 0 percent chance of humidity.

Sleep well, Monamoosh.

• Kimerer is a columnist with a broken heart. Tell her canine tails at www.patriciakimerer.com.