This is the third post in a 3-part series. Click here to read the first in the series.

I woke to a dog barking outside. I opened my eyes and tears rolled to my pillow. I looked out my window, took a deep, shaky breath and sighed.

Maybe the worst part wasn’t even over.

My loving companion, Hines, had collapsed on a trail seven days prior. We made the most of his last six days but had to put him down on September 26. As beautiful as the prior day had been, the sun rising the following morning indicated it was time to start piecing my life back together and cobble up an entirely new routine. My routine was Hines-centered for the last decade. This would be a daunting task. 

For starters: How does my day begin now?

Previously, a coffee and a walk were how we kicked off each day. He’d jump into action at the sound of the coffee pot slipping back onto the burner, as he learned it signified: time for a walk!

Without him here, do I still take a walk?

Better question: could I muscle through even a single route we had strolled together, or would I just be a hyperventilating puddle?

I did walk. And I did cry. The walk felt so bare without him, and as anticipated, walking was just one element of life that is different.

Eating is different.

Sleeping is different.

Working is different.

Working out is different.

Leaving is different.

Coming home is way different.

I’ll save us some time and sum this up by saying absolutely everything is different. Nothing is the same, and most of it hurts. Pretty badly.

The bone-dry reality of it is I am facing one of life’s hardest lessons: learning to accept when a dog’s part in our story is over, when – in all honesty – a million more years with him wouldn’t have been enough.

Our story was my favorite story, and I know our divine partnership was unlike anything I’ll ever experience again. Hines and I went through a lot together. He was there for me through some hard times: multiple breakups, getting fired from a job, my parent’s divorce, and COVID, to name a few.

He was there for all the good things, too: training for my first and only (so far!) marathon, starting up my photography business (though he hated it, he was such a great subject!), a change in residency and travels to several states, most recently driving to Kentucky to meet Ben, my aunt’s dog earlier this year. (This is unique because Hines was named after Hines Ward, and Ben was named after Ben Roethlisberger).

From my aunt’s home, Hines and I continued to North Carolina and hiked “Deep Gap Trail” on Mount Mitchell and a portion of the Appalachian Trail along the French Broad River. I remember feeling his seemingly renewed energy on some of those very challenging trails, and it brought a ton of joy to both of us. At the time of his passing, Hines’ “States Visited” count was 11.

I learned a lot from him, and we never left each other stranded: He was on the kayak with me when we were attacked by a duck (he stayed calm and I absolutely freaked). He was my wedding guest on one occasion (a long story that starts with my dad being notoriously late, includes us not having time to drop Hines for doggy care, and resulted in Hines spending a full day in the back of my car with only short breaks, long apologies, and a glowstick dance party at the end of the night). And he helped us back on course when I was disoriented on a high trail in Colorado (we’d probably still be walking in circles if it weren’t for his trusty instincts). I endured his love for rolling in the world’s smelliest goo, and he endured my “ope! Forgot just one thing” when it was time for walks. Our patience with each other seemed to rarely wear thin.

I’ve had family dogs, and I’ll have other dogs in the future, just nothing like this. Hines’ humanistic way of life, obedient heart, gentleness, protective nature, expressiveness, and all-encompassing awareness was downright special and absolutely irreplaceable. And, when you have what you believe is the absolute best of something, it’s super hard to lose it.

But I had it. I lived it, loved it, and did the most I could possibly do with it. As my dad said in conversation after Hines’ passing, “the way you loved this dog is not like any other dog I’ve known.”

Family and close friends knew this, so it’s no surprise I was up to my ears in support the days and weeks after his passing. People checked on me, visited me, invited me to things, asked me how I was doing, fully knowing it would lead to me droning on about Hines. Out-of-the-blue calls and texts were a major help in bridging the gap between the partner-in-crime life I had, and the solitude that followed his passing. My counselor consistently reminded me to give myself Grace – with a capital “G.” Others sent cards, notes, pictures, flowers, plants, a customized “Hines” sweatshirt and other gifts that eventually filled my dining room table. Kids colored photos, drew cards, and wrote and performed songs about Hines. One note came a little later (can you guess who it was from?) and included a reminder I had never thought of:

“You are not alone, as many of us will miss Hines and have great, fun memories of time spent with him.”

I am not alone.

One of the sweetest stories shared to demonstrate this was one my sister, Lynn, told of her 5-year-old daughter, Taylor. Taylor was very sad about the loss of Hines and wanted to express that to him. I had gifted her a kite a short time earlier, and Lynn and Taylor decided to use the kite to “send kisses and hugs” to Hines in heaven.

Many of us will miss Hines.

Knowing I wasn’t alone was comforting. This is my first route with grief, so its path is completely unexpected. I am fine, then not fine. Happy, then sad. Depressed, then grateful. Numb, then overwhelmed. My emotions have taken less the twists and turns of a rollercoaster, but more the unpredictable, unexpected and jerky route a token takes in a game of Plinko.

It took my brain a week or so to register and accept that Hines wasn’t around anymore. It was odd. I knew he had died, but the habits of having him around took a while longer to fade. After more than 10 years with him at my side, I had grown used to him being there, so my behaviors still reflected it. I’d get home from running errands and would think to open the door to let Hines out while I unloaded the car, for example.

Then I’d remember… Hines isn’t here anymore.

I’d see a deal on dog treats and get excited for a split second.

Then I’d remember… Hines isn’t here anymore.

Even once it absorbed, I continued having regular flashbacks of the day we put him down. Big blocks of my day were occupied with heavy thoughts, big heartbreak. I recall texting a friend a few weeks into the process with great concern.

“This seems to be getting worse with time.”

In late-October, about a month after Hines passed, I visited Dad. This was the first time home without Hines, and some firsts were more difficult than others. This was a tough one, as Dad’s place was one of Hines’ favorite places to explore, so I was in a funk.

Rather than spending a day down in the dumps, I leaned on one of my favorite expressions that morning: “nothing changes if nothing changes.” I put on a swimsuit and went down to the lake for a quick cold dip to reset my mind and body. I got out of the lake, wrapped myself in a towel and watched the morning fog float over the water. After a few minutes, I realized it wasn’t even 40 degrees. I was soaked from head to toe, my arms and legs were bare, yet I wasn’t shivering. I didn’t even have goosebumps.

“I am okay,” I said out loud. “I am oddly okay.”

“Oddly okay” became my favorite way to describe how this phase of life feels. This descriptor feels far more honest than “good.” It is an authentic and refreshing response that also gives me space to let people know how things really are.

I shared some of these feelings with a friend, who promised the sadness would eventually lighten, and the happy times would continue to stick. I clung to those words, excited for the day I wouldn’t feel the ache in my chest.

Then, as promised, one day, about two months into my grief journey, I noticed the sadness lifted a little. Somewhere along the line, I began to think of Hines in light sprinkles throughout the day. Rather than the heavier thoughts and the ache in my heart, my mind was queuing up visualizations of him rolling in the snow, begging for snacks, nudging my leg, trotting down a trail, looking in my eyes or lying in notoriously weird positions in my office.

I still cry myself to sleep some nights, but I’ve been alright at navigating the healing journey, especially compared to how I thought I’d be doing, which looked a lot like burying myself under the covers and staying in bed with the curtains closed for weeks without eating, showering or talking to anyone. It hasn’t been perfect, but I’ve consistently looked for things that will make me feel good, most of which are simple. Sunshine. Walks. Yoga. Time with friends. Time with family. Reading. Journaling. 

And so, with this chapter of my life having ended, I’ve started writing a new one, building a new life after loss and carrying Hines along in my heart.

My walks have gotten easier, and I’ve learned to breathe through the tears that come regularly on my strolls. On these outings, rather than watching Hines enjoy the walk, I looked for signs of him, mostly in the fluttering leaves or in an aspen spotting. I was very pleased to notice groups of aspens on one of my favorite neighborhood walks. We had walked by them countless times previously, but I had never noticed them. Of course, they didn’t carry as much significance then. Their leaves brought peace through fall.

The leaves are transitioning. I must, too.

Around home, I continue to display the things that bring joy. The gorgeous canvas prints of Hines remain intact. I wrapped his Steelers collar around the lamp on my nightstand and hung his mountain adventure collar from a leaf-shaped frame housing a photo of him. I pulled from the earth a few things that remind me of him, and those elements are positioned on the dining room table, too. Also in the shrine: his paw print. The black ink is a stark contrast to the white paper we pressed his paw onto that day. It’s a perfect metaphor for the mark he left on the hearts of anyone who took even a minute to get to know him.

I know I was lucky and was perfectly aware that our venture was a once-in-a-lifetime endeavor. So, when I feel sad about our story ending, I work to shift my focus to the gift I had rather than the loss of it. I have a million memories to lean on. Hines tolerated countless photos and videos, so I’m thankful I can reflect on those for reminders of the adventures we had, the life and fun he brought to each day. I can still see him drool, do tricks, extract a treat from his Kong, sprint toward me. I can still study his beautiful features and remember how it felt to cup his face, kiss his nose, flip his ear over and whisper my favorite words to him: “I love you. 500×500.”

I’ve also found major healing through music. I have been listening to several songs on repeat since late September. No. 1 being “The Road” by Madeline Edwards.

Hines and I discovered this song during the last storm we endured together three days after his collapse. Hines would get very worked up during storms, so as you might imagine, an incoming system when I knew of his lung condition had both of us extra anxious. Music always helped us through. That Saturday evening, he was curled up on the floor by my chair and I was petting him with my feet, another habit acquired from Dad. I could feel Hines vibrate with fear, which was normal for him.

When Spotify played this song, I instantly connected with the lyrics. In it, Madeline sings, “Your love is walking me down the road, whenever I can’t do it on my own… your love is helping me carry the load… whenever I can’t do it on my own.” I believe Madeline is singing about God, but for me, the song has a double meaning, as I felt that way about Hines, too. It’s on my Hines playlist, and it’s worth a listen if you’ve never heard it.

Other songs struck at odd times, just as grief would. There was a fine evening recently when I cued up a peppy list to enjoy while I cycled in my basement. On came a remix of Coldplay’s “Fix You,” which I was really digging, until the refrain, where I crumbled.

“Tears stream, down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace.”

Those lyrics couldn’t be any truer. As sad as it makes me, that song resonated, therefore, made the cut for the Hines playlist.

Finally, Chris Stapleton’s “Broken Halos” gives me a nice vision of what Hines’ halo and wings might look like. There are 30-some songs on Hines’ playlist, all which hold meaning and give me peace as I grieve. The music, and the playlist in particular, has helped me savor the good days and ride out the bad days.

Throughout the fall, I visited Hines’ site a few times. I added a few plants, and we recently hung a few bird houses and a bird feeder in Hines Field. These were items I planned to purchase but felt God shining down on me the day I found exactly what I needed sitting for the taking at the end of someone’s driveway. I spraypainted the old feeder cherry red and Rob helped fix it up and install it. I must say, it adds just the splash we needed to the field.

A nephew picked up on the energy and suggested starting a tradition that includes playing a game in Hines Field each weekend I’m out there with them.

We chose a spot near the edge of the cleared area with a red oak tree nearby. I imagined my sister’s kids (also big Hines fans) playing in that area with Hines situated on the sidelines. I liked that imagery.

This simple thought means the world to me, and clearly to them, too. I am hopeful the weekend games will become a lifelong tradition. Rob has since engraved Hines’ initials into the rock, and we will eventually mark Hines Field with a sign. In the spring, my mom offered to buy and plant a new tree in memory of Hines.

These monuments, this tradition, and this place on Earth have become extremely charged for me, and just like my emotions, this place has transitioned from a graveyard to a place of high energy, big love and everlasting beauty.

This fall was a lesson in gratitude and humility. I continue to hear what sounds exactly like Hines’ collar jingle, his ears flap, or the thump he made when jumping off the bed. In response to those noises, I’ve learned to just smile and say, “Hi Hines.”

I continue to see signs of him, often in the trees, once in the eyes of another dog and once in a dream. In that dream, he looked at me with the same curiosity, love and energy he had all those years. When I called him, he got up, ran down the stairs and out the door. Once outside, he gave ‘er hell doing zoomies around the yard, pain free.

“Pain free” is one of the best thoughts I have of Hines now, and like to envision him crossing that rainbow bridge and playing around with all the other best dogs. The Rainbow Bridge Poem paints a lovely picture of this.

“All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor,” -Rainbow Bridge Poem, Author Unknown

Listing the joy, adventures and laughter Hines brought over the last decade would fill endless pages and would take an eternity to write, so I’ll sum this up by saying Hines gave me the most enjoyable dance I’ve ever had and I’m beyond grateful for it. Grace V. from Ohio, you were right – and I thank you for helping to kick off this incredibly challenging segment of life with your quote that I am learning may indeed be true.

 “After every storm there’s a rainbow, no matter how long it takes to show up.” – Grace V., Ohio.

This holiday season, a new angelic ornament brings meaning and life to my Christmas tree. The white dog with gold angel wings marks a life, a companion, a gift, a year, and a transition I’ll never, ever forget.

Shootin’ the Wit is a sporadic blog about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.