Summer of 2025 came more difficult news. The kind you work through one appointment, one conversation, one breath at a time. And not long after that, Rocky suffered what we believe was a stroke. Within hours, we had to say goodbye to him too. Losing two dogs so close together felt like losing the exclamation points in our lives. We were now back to one dog again. Finn for the longest time wouldn’t jump into John’s truck. We believe it’s because he watched Rocky leave in it and never return. Finn kept us going. We had no choice. But life was a bit hollow and heavy. And uncertainty loomed everywhere. Hey, that’s life, right! No guarantees!
It has been a while since I’ve posted anything personal, which is saying something, because I am famously incapable of not communicating. Silence is not my brand. But the last two years have had a way of rearranging things, including words.
In November of 2024, on 11/11, we said goodbye to Jack, our chocolate lab, who was thirteen. I was as prepared as a person can be when they know something inevitable is coming, which is to say, not prepared at all. Jack was the kind of dog who made life easier just by existing. He was gentle. He was chill. He never did anything wrong. He was, essentially, the emotional support human of our household, disguised as a dog.
John, my strong, steady husband, took it harder than I expected. Jack was his quiet companion, his constant. And men of a certain age, from a certain era, tend to keep their feelings folded neatly inside themselves, where they do not take up space or inconvenience anyone. Which, as it turns out, does not shorten grief. It only gives it better hiding places.
In March 2025 on a Sunday just before St. Patrick’s Day in the midst of gray cold days, still crying over missing Jack, I saw a yellow lab puppy up for adoption and thought, very reasonably, This will fix everything! And so we brought home Finn. He is adorable. Radiantly, undeniably adorable. Rocky (who had never been the lone dog in the house) was both happy to finally have another lab to boss around and probably frustrated to have to share space with yet another cute four legged creature. But…Rocky had John. The two of them would curl on the couch and read books (John, not Rocky!). Aside from working with John, Rocky was probably in the height of happiness during his lifetime. John will admit he loved Rocky more than anything (because of course he would, Rocky didn’t complain about the house being too cold, or driving in the dark, or menopause).
We have always had two dogs. Never just one. And when John saw a black lab puppy up for adoption, there was some back and forth. He decided yes. Then no. Then yes again. I was excited. Then sad. Then hopeful. I thought maybe a puppy is exactly what John needs to give him that pure joy back. Some hope to hold onto in this winter of our life (both seasonal and metaphorical). Eventually, that tiny black lab came home, and John called him Buddy, because that’s what he was going to be. His little Buddy.
Buddy is many things. Sometimes Buddy. Sometimes Buddha, because of how he sits. Sometimes Hank the Tank, because he barrels through life like a friendly freight train. And sometimes Aristotle, because he has wise eyes and an unsettling level of intelligence. He already follows Finn’s scent around the yard, carefully mapping the universe, even when Finn has already come back inside.
He is a wonderful dog. And he arrived at a time when we may have been more vulnerable than we realized.
There is a particular kind of heartbreak in admitting that love and timing are not always aligned. That maybe we should have waited. That maybe we asked more of ourselves than we could reasonably give while navigating medical uncertainty and exhaustion. It feels grievous to say out loud, especially when you love animals, that something you chose with your whole heart might not be right for this moment.
So here we are, trying to find Buddy a home through friends, where he will be deeply loved and properly adored. Because it isn’t fair to a puppy to live inside human overwhelm. And it isn’t fair to people who are still healing to pretend they are stronger than they are.
This is where we are on a very cold winter weekday. A little bruised. A little hopeful. Still believing that better weather, in every sense of the word, is ahead.
And that has to count for something.
