It’s Not Goodbye, It’s See You Later

I always want this space to be safe and uplifting, but the harsh reality of life is that it’s not always the case. There are some hard days. Let’s be honest—sometimes there are hard seasons. Life really threw us a curveball this week as we faced the incredibly difficult decision to let our dog go. I’ve been dreading this day for years. He was 12, soon to be 13, and while I don’t like to live in worry, it had been in the back of my mind more and more lately.

We adopted "Rusty" when he was just 11 weeks old. My husband and I wanted a companion for my older son, who was 7 at the time. We’d tried looking at breeders, but nothing really seemed right. We knew we wanted a puppy but had a hard time finding one to rescue. I grew up with a Collie and knew their temperament would be perfect for a young family. My mother-in-law saw an ad in the Washington Post, and I made the call on a Friday night. By Saturday morning in the fall of 2015, we got a call from the breeder that they had two puppies left—a boy and a girl—first come, first served. We quickly jumped in the car and headed out. We had nothing ready or prepared but we went anyway. I thought for sure we’d pick the girl, but when we watched our son hold Blakely like a baby in his arms, we knew he was the one.

Blakely was the runt of the litter, a little smaller than his siblings but with a big personality. Ironically, he never really learned to bark—which is unusual for his breed. He’d make noises when playing, but never a real bark. As a puppy, he loved the frisbee. He was incredibly fast, and his accuracy was uncanny. He was truly one of a kind. Shelties are known to be loyal and obedient, but Blakely had this special gift of being a companion to everyone. He was gentle and so sweet, kids adored him. He had this way of talking to you with his eyes, and if he needed something, he’d nudge you with his nose. The eye stare was intense—usually his way of saying, "I’d like to go out, please!"

Blakely loved his people. So much so that he could be left outside, and he wouldn’t leave the yard. One time he got out of the backyard and made his way straight to our front door. Wherever you were, he was. I can’t count how many times I almost stepped on him. When the kids were babies, he’d lay by their cribs or under their high chairs. The late night feedings, he was right by your feet. But my favorite memory? When they were too small for their feet to touch the ground in their jumpers, he’d lay underneath them so they could use him to bounce.

We had our routines, and I will miss those tremendously. As he got older, we let him sleep downstairs. I’m an early riser, and every morning, he would be waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He’d follow me around the kitchen as I made my coffee. He was lying by my feet when I started this blog. He knew it all and saw it all. The happy moments, the birthdays, the holidays—and the sad times, too. I’ve realized that in my every day, just his presence was enough. And I miss that presence deeply.

In the midst of the pain, Blakely taught us some important lessons. He loved with his whole body—when he’d see us after being away, his entire body showed it. He was quick to forgive—if you accidentally stepped on him, he’d yelp, but then immediately kiss you to say, "It’s okay." He showed us that life isn’t permanent, that we truly aren’t promised even the rest of our day. We have to remember what’s most important despite everything else going on.

Thank you, Blakely, for loving us. ❤️ For truly being the absolute best. Enjoy playing catch with Mandy, and find your cousin Buddy—give him hell. 

With Love,

Brittany