Words from the Heart of a Grieving Dog Mom

Dearest Camden, 

You originally came to us to help settle a feud between two kids in a blended family. 

It was a hot August day in 2018 when we walked into that backyard. Chain-link fence, dust in the air, and what felt like hundreds of beagles running everywhere. 

When we stepped through the gate, you stayed in the back. Timid. Afraid. While all the other puppies rushed toward us, you stayed still. We looked at you and knew you were ‘the one’. Perhaps you were a mirror to how we all felt at times...timid, afraid, and alone. 

We brought you home and quickly learned your story carried more than we could see. You had a fractured neck. You were full of worms. And yet, after months of tender love and care, you healed. 

Soon, the original feud turned into something else entirely: who was going to take care of the puppy. 

That puppy was you. 

You dug holes in the yard and brought worms into the house, carefully hiding them in the couch. That’s how you earned your nickname: Mucky. 

You left mucky paw prints everywhere, like proof you had been there, like you belonged. 

You were my running partner, my companion, and my steady friend. You carried my words, my tears, and held me in times of deep emotional pain. Someone needed to hear the insanity happening between these two ears. And you listened, without judgment, every time... maybe a little judgement.

You loved on your own terms. You had a fierce bark and a sniffer that could detect even the faintest hint of food. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was safe when you were around. 

Over time, you started to slow down. We removed cancer a few years ago, and you bounced back, stronger than expected. You still loved your walks and your friends at the dog park. You hopped the fence on more than one occasion and left our friends to hunt you down by following your beautifully white tipped tail. It swayed two and frow as you followed your nose.  

But slowly, gently, your body began to change. You slept more. Walking became harder. Sometimes you lost your bladder. Your mind and heart were still so deeply with your family, but your body couldn’t keep up anymore. It hurt to hear you bark when we went outside. I didn’t want to leave you there, Mucky, but you couldn’t manage the pain that enveitble came with movement. I am sorry. 

Even when you stopped getting up to eat or drink, if food was placed in front of you at home, you’d still eat. You were still here. Still trying. 

Your last few days with us were magical. There was softness to them; a knowing we didn’t speak out loud. You had one last walk with your friends. You got to say goodbye to the people who loved you. You spent the night with your kids. Now grown and almost adult kids.  

You drank coffee. You ate bacon and eggs. You soaked up cuddles. You walked with Dakota. You were surrounded by love, exactly as it should be. 

And then… that was it. 

Yet it still feels like you’re here. I catch myself checking the couch to see if you’re okay. I haven’t used the crate in almost a week. I still look up toward the cupboards and the garbage – what can I say it's a habit now. The house is a little cleaner. 

I would trade all of it for more time. 

Grief is strange like that. It lets them leave, but not entirely. Your body is gone, but your presence remains. Your spirit is woven into routines, muscle memory, and love. This is the kind of grief that lingers quietly, not because something is unfinished, but because something mattered absolutely. 

When logic and reason fall short, I find myself reaching for something more spiritual. The only way to make sense of what the heart already knows. That perhaps you came into our lives exactly when you were meant to. That your time here, though never long enough, was complete in its own sacred way. That love doesn’t end, like energy it just changes form. 

Life has an expiry date, whether we like it or not. 

I think about all the bargaining... the what ifs. If I had bought different food, given different supplements, loved you harder, been less frustrated, walked you more, made different choices, and avoided time itself. I think about all the ways I tried to outrun what was inevitable. 

What a foolish thing grief asks of us. 

And yet, how human. 

The perception of a spiritual way of living may suggest this: that souls don’t leave randomly. There is an order we can’t always see. That maybe your work here was done, Mucky. Not because we were ready, but because you were. And maybe part of my work now is learning how to hold love without needing to hold on. 

Those thoughts don’t change the pain, but they sure do soften it. They remind me that your life mattered, that your presence was purposeful, and that love like this doesn’t disappear; it expands. What a beautiful thing you have given me.  

So today, I choose to remember all of it. 

The joy. 

The laughter. 

The love. 

That god forsaken bark.

Alongside the pain, the grief, and the sadness, because they belong too. 

You should know, the feud is settled. Those two kids are now the best of friends, and I think you had something to do with that. 

I am so honoured to have known you and to have cared for you while you were here. I love you, Mucky girl. Hold me a seat in heaven, and when I’m done doing the work I came to this place to do, I’ll see you there.