Milo
2009 - 2024
"How lucky am I to have had something that makes saying goodbye so hard."
- A.A. Milne
In private correspondence, Truman Capote once wrote that the world is not kind to little things. This is true; the world is big and scary and definitely not set up for the 'under two feet tall' crowd. What's also true is that the world is not kind to sweet things. To things that can love unconditionally and uncritically. Which is what made Milo such an anomaly. He was, by any metric, entirely too little and too sweet to stay forever.
I don't think there is a single person that met this dog that didn't fall in love with him instantly. Strangers on the street would stop during walks to ask about him. Receptionists at veterinary clinics would coo over him, and nurses would fight over who got to attend to him when he was under their care. While Milo's cartoonishly cute looks may have grabbed attention, his sweet little personality was what kept it. Our running joke was always that Milo was a reincarnated little boy back for one more time around the world, but this time as a dog. He was affectionate and playful and funny, from the first day that he came home as a tiny puppy into his middle ages, and into the final days when he was completely blind and coasting on medications, barking playfully at absolutely nothing or staring with blind eyes out a window.
The most that we can hope for in this life is to be loved unconditionally, and Milo gave that. No matter how bad your day was, Milo would happily trot up to you, lick your foot, and then try to roll a ball to you. If you sat down, he wanted to sit right next to you and cuddle in. I spent dozens of COVID remote work days in my big stuffed easy chair with Milo, all ten pounds of him, wedged down next to me, resting his head on my knee and snoring gently, only occasionally turning over to have his belly rubbed before drifting off to sleep again. He loved unconditionally, and we loved him in return.
So, as things became bad, we did the most loving thing we could: we let him go peacefully, gently sleeping, surrounded by the people who spent his entire life loving him with their whole hearts. The world may not be kind to small things, but how many of us get to happily fall asleep surrounded by warmth and love, in the arms of our family.
Goodbye, sweet boy.
Lucy
2009 - 2025
“To live in this world you must be able to do three things: To love what is mortal; To hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, To let it go.”
- Mary Oliver
We didn't bring Lucy home the same day we brought Milo home — she came home a few weeks later, after Kira returned to the pet store and saw the single remaining dog up for adoption, the shy and skittish little one cowering in the corner of the pen, small and afraid. For the first week, she would wet herself when you came near her or picked her up, shrinking into corners, making herself small and invisible. Despite this, we would soon find out that Lucy was the opposite: larger than her size, invincible, and brimming with life.
Lucy was perhaps the most stubborn and strong-headed dog I've ever met. It's a common trait among dachshunds, sure, but Lucy exemplified it. To say that she henpecked her brother would be an understatement — she would flat out bully him at times, pinning him down to lick his ears, barking to bring him back into line when he got into trouble. But it wasn't just Milo that awoke her instincts; anything small (defined as her size) became the instant target of her infatuation, and she would sit like a sphinx, absolutely infatuated. But that was Lucy, she was always infatuated with life. She relished in every new sight, sound, smell, taste, and experience. A walk around the block became a 45 minute adventure because not a blade of grass would go by without her investigating it.
And she was sweet. If there's one thing you need to know about Lucy, it's that she was a sweet, affectionate dog. When you first met her, she would come off as aloof, but I think that was a defense mechanism from puppyhood. Once she loved you, she loved you fiercely, and would prove it with an unending assault of kisses, constantly snuggling and burrowing into the crevasses between your legs or under your arms, always looking to wedge her head under your chin or be held like a baby. Most dogs don't like having their paws petted, but Lucy would offer up her hands and want to hold hands like a newborn would. She loved whole-heartedly, and we loved her too.
In the last four or five years, her health began to take a turn, but Lucy was the ultimate odds-beater. No less than eight separate times did we take her to an emergency vet appointment where some unassuming veterinarian would say, 'Oh, this is it, she's not going to recover from this, you should put her down,' only for Lucy to make a full recovery a week later. She was tenacious, a true little fighter, but towards the end health issues compounded the way they always do and too many little things finally became several big things. So because we knew she would not leave us — I think she would have fought down to the final cell and atom of her body — we gave her permission to go, and she took it. She passed away, literally smiling, in her mother's arms, her clear eyes still open, gazing into whatever comes next. Although one thing is certain: wherever that place is, I'm confident she saw Milo there, and the litter is finally reunited.
I love you, our beautiful girl, our sweet princess. Thank you. Goodbye.