A Lifetime by my Side

On loving and losing dogs

{A Gentle Note: This piece is about the death of a beloved dog. If this topic is tender for you, please take care while reading.}

It’s a warm day near the end of June and although clouds have moved in from the sea, the water sparkles, sending small, slow swells to the shore. My eyes are fixed on the point at the horizon as I pick up the orange toy in slow motion, stretch my arm back and watch it fly far into the water. Milo rushes after it, swimming with the same strength and stamina he’s has every since he was a 7-month-old puppy.
That day in the city park, when I had thrown a tennis ball into the river for the very first time and he jumped to fetch it back, being momentarily carried away with the stream. I had stopped breathing then, until I saw him paddling back to me, ball in mouth, with a proud look on his beautiful face.

13 years later, that look has not changed, but his face is now fringed with white and his eyes have long taken on the gentle milkiness typical for older dogs. They are a little sunken in, just like the rest of his lean body. A body guided by a will so strong it still hurls itself into the water with vigour, swimming for his toy as he always does.
In his stronger days, when we’d be swimming together, I could gently hold his body between my hands and let myself be carried back to the shore. I’ve never learned to crawl properly, so during my long, slow swims, Milo would swim impatient circles around me, herding me out of the water.

He does not know that he is only swimming today because the medicine is numbing his pain.
He does not know that the bone in his right hind leg is so swollen and brittle and eaten by cancer that it might snap at any moment.
He does not know that today is his last day swimming, his last day with us, his last day feeling my hands around his slim, wet body.
His last day living.

Checking my watch, I see that it’s almost time to go.
The thought of throwing his beloved toy for the very last time nearly crushes my soul.
I fight back tears, pull my arm back and release the rope, quickly running after it into the water to swim by his side as I’ve done so many times before.
Time freezes as we swim back to shore side by side, as I gently run my hand over his slender back, letting myself sink into this moment so completely, trying to grasp the meaning of “last time”.

What remains when we lose what is most precious to us?

A few weeks later we will return to the water.
We will light candles and write his name in the sand with seashells.
MILO.
We will spread rose pedals around his favourite spot and walk into the sirupy water under the bright summer evening sky fading from the palest blue through peach and pink into deep lavender. We will swim and swirl in the water with handfuls of ashes. We will take them out further, letting them be taken away by the gentle waves while we fill our sadness-worn hearts with the thought that we will be near Milo whenever we are near water.
From this small bay in the Baltic Sea, his ashes will be carried further, into the North Sea and then the Atlantic Ocean, and all other oceans after that.
He will become the ocean water and the clouds above, the raindrops and the flowers and the morning dew and the mist that hangs over the fields around our house when the seasons change. This brings us comfort.

I have chosen a poem for him, Sea Fever by John Masefield. As I read it out loud to Milo, to my husband and our son, to the sea and the pink sky and the wispy clouds traveling above us, my voice cracks in the final verse, tears streaming down my face. The sun has long set on the other side of the field as I feel myself melting into this moment.

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
 
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
 
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

---

It was unlikely that I would ever meet a creature who’d love the sea as much as I did until Milo came along.
A lifetime ago, when I brought him home as an 8-week-old, hyper-active and hyper-stressed puppy, I had no idea how much the decision to get a dog – to get this dog – would change the trajectory of my life. Within a couple of months, I had to move as neighbours had complained about a dog in the house.
And even though our new place was surrounded by parks and woods and swimming lakes that lay within biking distance, I quickly found out that I had traded my freedom – all my freedom – for my new companion.
Milo could not stay alone. Not an hour, not 10 minutes, not with dietary changes and small-step-practice and medicine and the help of the best dog behaviour experts. As soon as the door closed behind me, the howling and barking started. I could hear it from three blocks away.

I had just finished my master’s degree in musicology and taken on a part-time internship at a music publisher in town. But being away from home for 6 hours was impossible, and Milo was too sensitive to be sent to any kind of pet daycare. After being confronted by our next-door-neighbours who had just had a baby I knew without a doubt that I’d have to work from home. There was no other way.
I gave up applying for positions in publishing houses, took a start-up crash course and registered for state examinations as a translator without ever having had any formal translation training. A few months later, I had a shiny certification and a freelance translation business, working for music publishers, museums, and internationally renowned competitions.

It was during thas time that my first marriage disintegrated.
I first met the man I would marry five years later when I was searching for a dog sitter in a local forum. Our paths had crossed before, at the dog park. We started running together, Milo by our side. Not long after that, we were both getting divorced and had moved in together.
Our weekends were spent adventuring in nature; swimming, hiking, biking, running. When our tiny family expanded with the birth of our son, Milo was gentle and accepting. And when we moved to Rügen in the Baltic sea in 2018, our world was flipped upside-down once again. Life began to revolve around trips to the beach – no matter the day, no matter the weather.

---

During the pandemic, our island, usually brimming with tourists, was blissfully empty. We’d take our toddler and our dog and my notebook to the beach, grateful we were still allowed to do so as the water was within the radius lockdown restricted us to. I was building a new business at the time, spending my working hours in Zoom calls and using the time at the beach to clear my head, putting my ideas into a shape I could grasp.

The decision to get a second dog in April of 2020 was more emotional than logical, and after the initial stress of homing a rescue dog who was used to living in the streets fending for himself, Marti’s calm, gentle personality came through and he turned out to be a therapeutic influence for Milo, who was much calmer in his presence.
Soon we could no longer imagine them apart – their gentle nudges, the subtle way they communicated with each other and the joy of shared adventures.
During summer holidays camping in the Swedish wilderness they’d curl up on the back seat together at night. When we went rock climbing they’d stay by the rope, spotting us from below.
And then there were countless days spent by the sea, which drew us to its shores no matter the season, no matter the weather.

We had found our ideal family dynamic.
While other couples were having their second and third babies, we drove all the way to Portugal with a toddler and two dogs, spending three glorious months breathing Atlantic air and living sourrounded by big waves and some of the most breathtaking beaches I had ever laid eyes on.
Our son was still in kindergarten and my business afforded us the freedom to roam. A business that, without Milo, would not exist.

---

A year after we had returned to Rügen, we took Milo to the vet for routine vaccinations before a family holiday. The diagnosis of a spleen tumor crashed down on us like an unexpected thunderbolt.
I would quickly learn that less than one third of all spleen tumors in dogs are benign, and that all require immediate emergency.
Standing in the shower that evening, feeling hot water running down my body, a wave of fear and anticipatory grief washed over me, dragging me into the depths of a visceral darkness.

How much time did we have left? How would I – how would we – cope with losing Milo?
We chose to look into the light, to hold on to hope, however small.
A few days later, that small ray of light exploded into what even now seems like a miracle.
Not only was Milo well enough to travel to Denmark with us just days after his surgery, the tumor had also been confirmed as benign.
He had beaten the odds, narrowly escaped death, and I had been given a glimpse of what it would be like to lose him.
My heart was overflowing with gratefulness for every moment we still had together, seeing each and every one of them as a precious gift.

But a shadow remained inside me. After that first encounter with grief, I knew we were living on borrowed time.

When grief found me again a year and a half later, she had come to stay. Like a soft animal she made her way into my insides, finding her home there and letting me know that she would never, ever leave.

The sky was bursting with orange and reds and pinks for days after Milo had died.
As I lived through the countless parts of our daily routine that had always included him – morning walks, feeding time, sunlit summer afternoons – I felt grief’s presence moving and clawing inside me.
She had cracked my shell and crept into my soul, filling it with what felt like an oozing, sticky liquid. All I could do was to sit with it all – the pain, the sadness, the emptiness.

Realizing that this was neither something to get over, not following a predictable path of stages, I surrendered to her.
And to my surprise, as I moved through the days and weeks with grief living inside me, she became more gentle, even kind at times.
She showed me precious memories and allowed me to open myself to the belief that Milo was still there with us, just not in a physical way.

No coming, no going, 
No after, no before.  
I hold you close, 
I release you to be free;
I am in you and you 
are in me.
– Thich Nhat Hanh

---

“Will you get another dog?”, we were asked countless times. And always, always I knew the answer would be yes, but we needed time.
Time to feel the incompleteness and loss, time to honor what was.
Grief was transforming herself inside me during this time. She was becoming softer as she mingled with gratefulness and wisdom – the deep wisdom that nothing so dear to us can ever be truly lost.
I remembered a sentence my mother had said to me when I was a child, deeply disturbing words that have been etched into my mind ever since:
All happiness you experience in life will be paid for with pain.
I was determined that this could not, and would not, ever be my truth.

The first time Percy came back
he was not sailing on a cloud.
He was loping along the sand as though
he had come a great way.
"Percy," I cried out, and reached to him—
             those white curls—
but he was unreachable. As music
is present yet you can't touch it.
"Yes, it's all different," he said.
"You're going to be very surprised."
But I wasn't thinking of that. I only
wanted to hold him. "Listen," he said,
"I miss that too.
And now you'll be telling stories
            of my coming back
and they won't be false, and they won't be true,
but they'll be real."
And then, as he used to, he said, "Let's go!"
And we walked down the beach together.
– Mary Oliver

On New Year’s Eve a quiet intention pushed its way from the depths of my heart into my consciousnes.
That another dog would move in this year.
That Marti would once again have a companion.
That we would once again see the familiar silhouette of two dogs walking in front us us by she seashore.
That we were allowed to be complete again.

When I saw his picture on Instagram in late January, I just knew. My husband was still asleep upstairs while my heart was pounding. I had found him.
A tiny creature with parents that reminded me so much of Milo, and eyes that had just opened to the world.
There was no considering reason or other choices or properly weighing the decision in my mind. I just knew. Because the moment I saw him I felt grief once again shifting inside of me. She was more present, flooding my thoughts with images and memories of Milo. His first days, his last day, and everything lived in between.
She seemed to whisper that she would stay, but that it would be different from now on.
I felt that with a new beginning, a cycle was coming to a close. That it was always meant to happen like this, as even the longest night inevitably breaks into light again in the morning.

One sentence kept rising up from the deepest place inside me, again and again.

Milo has sent him.

---

It’s early March and the sun has climbed higher today than it has in months. The water in front of us is the clearest blue, but still freezing cold. We’ve returned to our spot.
Squinting into the sun, I can almost make out Milo’s shape swimming in the water near the horizon. My left hand reaches down and I’m touching soft, red fur.
Amouri is sleeping wrapped in a blanket beside me. As I lift him up and smell the soft spot near his ears, the familiar scent triggering a thousand memories, I realize how the circle of life is playing out in front of my eyes, one life giving way to another.

I see Milo in Amouri’s olive-colored eyes that are still in the process of transforming from their earlier baby blue into the deep amber they will eventually become. I witness myself being transformed, shedding the fear of loss I’ve been carrying for so long.
Before Milo’s death, I held the belief that without him by my side, there would never be perfect happiness again. I know now that this is true, that after grief has made her home inside us a gentle thread of soft sadness will be woven into all our happiness.
But I also know that this is nothing to be afraid of, because underneath the sadness, I feel a quiet strength, a strength that is only born from witnessing that devastating and indescribably tender moment of a beloved life vanishing. Having seen him transition, having felt his heart stop under my hands and having survived that moment allowed me to see death as a natural part of life, the closing of a beautiful cycle that will repeat itself endlessly, albeit in a different shape.

As days fade into night, darkness descends covering everything, seeming so endless and infinite – until it is once again cracked open by the first streaks of dawn on the horizon.

A new day is just beginning.