Illustration by Alex Siklos
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On Thursday afternoon, my partner and I unexpectedly said goodbye to our tiny dog, Miley. Her fur was clean, white and trimmed, having visited the groomer just the day before. After the haircut, we walked home together, past the spring crocuses and daffodils, most of them taller than she was. Through all her 16 years, she never looked older than a puppy.
I am surprised to grieve so deeply for Miley’s tiny presence. Part of me is still a farm kid, who resists the idea someone could have so much love for a dog.
On the farm, we had lots of dogs: there was Kain, as big as a bear and scared of thunder; Buddy, a Border Collie fast enough to keep up with the ATV, even when I pinned the throttle; and Snuggles, a mutt who gave birth to puppies in our porch. I enjoyed having dogs, but I did not grieve when they passed. Their comings and goings were part of life on the farm.
I reserved my love for people, I would have said.
But life is funny.
Miley was a surprise arrival at our home in Saskatoon. She came with a pink blanket, a yellow stuffed duckie and half a bag of kibbles. I sat on the stairs as she ran up to sniff my hand, impossibly small, her tail wagging as fast as it could go. My first thought was that her presence violated the rental contract. Graciously, the landlords chose to make an exception.
Miley had been with three families before us, all in her first four years. Now, after meeting a friend and seeing that she was destined for sale online, my partner intervened. We resolved that Miley would be with us to the end.
I was never a dog person – until I fell in love (ever so slowly) with Murphy
She was a rare, consistent presence as we criss-crossed the country. We moved to Ottawa together and went on long walks among the tulips. In her presence, the flowers seemed supersized. On every day I worked from home, Miley curled up behind me, bringing comfort and coziness when the pandemic closed us in.
Then, we moved to Vancouver, an ideal spot for seniors. In her later years, Miley experienced a renaissance beside the beach. We loved long walks year round in the mild weather. When she couldn’t go outside, Miley went to our patio door. She loved to sniff the ocean air, her eyes squinting and her nose just high enough to poke over the threshold.
I always imagined we would have children, but this has not come to pass. Instead we had Miley. Occasionally, people called me a dog dad. I’ve never been comfortable with the term. She did not exactly fill that place in my heart. Still, in Miley’s death, I find myself reaching for the word “family.”
We leaned on each other. When anxious about guests or travelling, Miley could spend almost the entire day with her tail curled inside my palm, her little chin resting over my forearm. How many hours did we spend this way? On nights alone, her presence comforted me as well. There are few ways I could feel more like myself than holding her.
I learned that you get the dog you need, not the one you want
I hear the country boy’s surprise that I could become so soft. On the farm, death was the way of things. When needed, I carried stillborn calves for disposal behind the barn, and, on more pleasant days, I hunted gophers in the spring barley. Why do I feel Miley’s death with such intensity?
I believe it is because she changed me through her consistent presence over 12 years. When Miley got older, I became attentive to her in a way that is only possible for someone who has been so near for so long. Through caring for her, I grew in gentleness, compassion, patience and kindness, and I experienced pure joy. This happened gradually, in the way she twirled her little body into my hand when she wanted me to pick her up, in the way she backed close to my hip when we sat together on the couch or when she nuzzled against my shoulder to escape the cold at night.
I celebrate the memories of Miley that will always bring joy and delight, the depth of friendship with those who have known and loved her, too, and the softness I learned from her. These are durable things that last, even now that she is gone. They speak to how important she was and why I feel such grief.
As I walk by the spring flowers without Miley this year, I can’t help but think of my beautiful dog.
Eric Neudorf lives in Vancouver.