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laying a little bit closer to him every visit. Today, after 30 minutes of slow, careful movements, I’m able to snuggle up and be the big spoon, to pet his chest and shoulder. He sighs contentedly.I’m now officially part of the pack.After five months of dating, I introduce Jay to my seven-year old daughter, A. We go to a park with Murphy who sniffs every blade of grass and tree while we throw the frisbee and kick the soccer ball. When we get back to my apartment, I leave for a few minutes to pick up a package from the office.When I return, A is crying — and has a small bite mark above her eyebrow and next to her nose.Jay is horrified. “Murphy thought he was protecting me,” he says and apologizes approximately one million times as he explains how A had approached Murphy, how Murphy had freaked out. “I couldn’t stop him in time.”Jay is convinced everything is over. But I know better. I rode and trained horses for years and see the moment for what it is. This is a teaching opportunity.A is okay; it’s just surface scrapes, thank goodness. We explain why Murphy did what he did and ways to safely pet him next time. It’s a lesson learned the hard way, for all of us, and Murphy is our teacher.Eventually, Murphy approves A’s membership to the pack. Lots of treats and time together, and she’s in.That first summer together, Jay and I backpack every other weekend when A is with her dad. We hike so many miles with Murphy. We’re all happiest in the woods, trekking up mountains and relaxing next to lakes.The drive to the trailheads is the tricky part. Murphy hates being in the car and insists on wedging himself in the footwell behind the driver’s seat — when he isn’t pacing on the back seat, that is, and he paces a lot. He also stress sheds. And drools. Combine the two and you’ve got an anxiety induced blizzard, white hair swirling around the car, the strings of drool cementing the hair to the seat or dashboard. Anytime we stop, he shakes his head, spraying dog spit throughout the car.It’s as gross as it sounds.We try everything over the years: a dog bed in the back of the Subaru with a net to keep him there, CBD treats, a contraption that’s like a hammock to keep him in the backseat and out of the footwell.Nothing is perfect. As he ages, though, he begins to agree to the seat hammock more. Sometimes he evens lays down — and stays there — and sleeps.After a couple years of dating, we combine households, and move into a 900-square foot two bedroom, two bathroom apartment. We’re on the fifth floor. It’s a tight fit with three people, a dog, two cats, and a Beta fish. We make it work, for the most part, but there are days where I both love my family and find my roommates incredibly annoying. There’s pet hair everywhere, all the time.Murphy and Jay take over the master bathroom, and A and I share the other one. Boy bathroom, girl bathroom. Murphy spends a lot to time hiding in the bath tub. Any noise — a neighbor’s smoke detector, a loud bang outside — sends him flying into it, where he feels safe.One day, A and I are home with Murphy and the building’s fire alarms start shrieking. We put on our shoes and I leash Murphy, who is frantically trying to get to h

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is bathtub. We join the stream of people filing down the hallway. Murphy strains against the leash, trying to run anywhere. As we get to the stairwell, I realize Murphy has pooped. A terror turd.“We’ll get it on the way back,” I say, not knowing what else to do.And thus, terror turds are born.Murphy is with us for every big milestone. Jay proposes, Murphy is there. We get married, Murphy is there. We move into a our own house, Murphy is there. He’s a huge consideration when we plan vacations. For a while, he was okay staying with one specific friend who also had two big dogs. But as he ages, he’s less agreeable. He snaps at her. We only do car trips, or trips where one of us goes, and one of us stays home with Murphy.The first time he has to stay at the vet for a few hours without us, he chews through the leash. He’s put into a kennel where he rubs the side of his face against the wire so hard he bleeds. After that incident, a vet tech is assigned to hang out with him, his own private dog sitter, at every single appointment. He is muzzled and is given many treats and pets.As he ages, his hind end atrophies. Arthritis settles into his hips. We car camp a lot. Once, we try to take him climbing, where he can hang out with the belayer, but we can’t get him to the crag. The trail is too steep.At one point, there’s a large step-up. Jay tries to lift Murphy up but he despises being lifted like a baby. He whines and bites Jay on the face.We skip climbing that day.In the last year of his life, Murphy wears diapers, or handsome boy pants (because he’s a handsome boy), all the time. His incontinence progresses in direct relation to his ability to walk. His hind end gives out more and more frequently.I work from home, luckily, and become his primary caregiver. Now, instead of hikes and car camping, we do slow walks and lots of floor snuggles. Soon, he can only play without walking; then without standing. Our lives revolve around what Murphy needs.We do the work. We love him. What else would we do?Now, he is gone. It’s only been a few days. But the question lives at the back of my mind: Who are we without Murphy? The dynamic of our household has shifted. It feels as though now it’s just me and Jay in our marriage, which is silly. Of course it’s always been the two of us.But Murphy was such a big presence in our lives. I married them both.Here’s what I do know: the space in our hearts left by Murphy will neither expand nor contract. It’s always been infinite. We’ll spend the time with each other, with A, go on vacations in Manhattan and Mexico and Portugal. Go on backpacking trips.Eventually, we’ll run across another being who needs us. A dog, another cat. A racoon (you never know with us).And we’ll love them, just like we loved Murphy.Hi! My name is Diane and I’m a mom, writer, content marketer, and outdoor enthusiast navigating this chaotic and often ridiculous world while dealing with POTS, chronic EBV, and overactive mast cells.I write about the craft of writing, chronic conditions, work and career shenanigans, and life outside my front door (which is behind an active Seattle bus stop!).</article></body>

This Is Not a Sad Story About My Dog Dying

Murphy showed us who we were. Now who are we?

“I’ve only known you with Murphy,” I say to my husband, who is rubbing tears from his face. We’re at the emergency vet, waiting for the vet techs to wheel Murphy back in so we can say goodbye to him.

“I don’t know if I know who I am without him,” Jay says, tearing up.

Once Murphy is settled into the nest of blankets again, we join him on the floor. The catheter for the needle is placed in his right hind leg, a heart bandage holding it in place. Someone brings fresh chicken and ham. Murphy snuffles eagerly, always a fan of food.

And we say good-bye to him. It’s awful and heartbreaking. Of course it is.

But this isn’t a sad story about my dog dying. This is a story about how Murphy showed us who we are (or were), and how we love(d) through good times and bad, in sickness and in health. You know, all that wedding vow stuff.

But most importantly: Who are we now? Who are we without him?

I’m walking briskly through downtown, my work laptop weighing down my backpack, when I see what looks like a polar bear-cow-dog. The guy walking the dog waves at me. This, I realize, is my date — my second date with Jay, to be exact. He’d told me about Murphy last weekend, when we’d met for dinner near my apartment. Jay lives in Belltown, a popular neighborhood in the heart of downtown Seattle. We’d agreed to meet between his condo and my office, and to then walk to dinner somewhere.

I wasn’t expecting Murphy to join us, but I don’t mind. I love dogs.

I approach him cautiously, keeping some space between us, offering the back of my hand to sniff if he wants. Murphy had been abused in his prior life. Jay was the third person to adopt him; he was returned twice because of how difficult he was.

“Oh, careful,” Jay says. “He’s really anxious and has to know you. He might snap.”

Murphy has bright blue eyes that are opaque in the sunlight, and derpy triangles ears that are too small for his head. Big brown patches spot his white, fluffy body. He recoils from my hand slightly, so I just say hello and back up a half step. Murphy looks to Jay for reassurance.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Jay says. Murphy relaxes, his tail wagging a bit. Jay pats his head. The trust between them is obvious.

Okay then. This could be good.

High on my list of requirements for a partner: cats and dogs must like them. Animals always know.

Date number two, here we go.

On our third date, we go backpacking in the Cascades. We bring two tents. It’s a six-mile hike and Murphy loves every step of it. By the time we set camp, we’ve talked for hours straight, and Murphy has let me pet him (a little).

We only need one tent. But with the way Murphy insists on sleeping across our legs, two might have been a tad roomier.

I’m at Jay’s place, hanging out until he gets home from work. We’ve been dating for three months. Murphy is still suspicious of me but I’ve been working to win him over, laying a little bit closer to him every visit. Today, after 30 minutes of slow, careful movements, I’m able to snuggle up and be the big spoon, to pet his chest and shoulder. He sighs contentedly.

I’m now officially part of the pack.

After five months of dating, I introduce Jay to my seven-year old daughter, A. We go to a park with Murphy who sniffs every blade of grass and tree while we throw the frisbee and kick the soccer ball. When we get back to my apartment, I leave for a few minutes to pick up a package from the office.

When I return, A is crying — and has a small bite mark above her eyebrow and next to her nose.

Jay is horrified. “Murphy thought he was protecting me,” he says and apologizes approximately one million times as he explains how A had approached Murphy, how Murphy had freaked out. “I couldn’t stop him in time.”

Jay is convinced everything is over. But I know better. I rode and trained horses for years and see the moment for what it is. This is a teaching opportunity.

A is okay; it’s just surface scrapes, thank goodness. We explain why Murphy did what he did and ways to safely pet him next time. It’s a lesson learned the hard way, for all of us, and Murphy is our teacher.

Eventually, Murphy approves A’s membership to the pack. Lots of treats and time together, and she’s in.

That first summer together, Jay and I backpack every other weekend when A is with her dad. We hike so many miles with Murphy. We’re all happiest in the woods, trekking up mountains and relaxing next to lakes.

The drive to the trailheads is the tricky part. Murphy hates being in the car and insists on wedging himself in the footwell behind the driver’s seat — when he isn’t pacing on the back seat, that is, and he paces a lot. He also stress sheds. And drools. Combine the two and you’ve got an anxiety induced blizzard, white hair swirling around the car, the strings of drool cementing the hair to the seat or dashboard. Anytime we stop, he shakes his head, spraying dog spit throughout the car.

It’s as gross as it sounds.

We try everything over the years: a dog bed in the back of the Subaru with a net to keep him there, CBD treats, a contraption that’s like a hammock to keep him in the backseat and out of the footwell.

Nothing is perfect. As he ages, though, he begins to agree to the seat hammock more. Sometimes he evens lays down — and stays there — and sleeps.

After a couple years of dating, we combine households, and move into a 900-square foot two bedroom, two bathroom apartment. We’re on the fifth floor. It’s a tight fit with three people, a dog, two cats, and a Beta fish. We make it work, for the most part, but there are days where I both love my family and find my roommates incredibly annoying. There’s pet hair everywhere, all the time.

Murphy and Jay take over the master bathroom, and A and I share the other one. Boy bathroom, girl bathroom. Murphy spends a lot to time hiding in the bath tub. Any noise — a neighbor’s smoke detector, a loud bang outside — sends him flying into it, where he feels safe.

One day, A and I are home with Murphy and the building’s fire alarms start shrieking. We put on our shoes and I leash Murphy, who is frantically trying to get to his bathtub. We join the stream of people filing down the hallway. Murphy strains against the leash, trying to run anywhere. As we get to the stairwell, I realize Murphy has pooped. A terror turd.

“We’ll get it on the way back,” I say, not knowing what else to do.

And thus, terror turds are born.

Murphy is with us for every big milestone. Jay proposes, Murphy is there. We get married, Murphy is there. We move into a our own house, Murphy is there. He’s a huge consideration when we plan vacations. For a while, he was okay staying with one specific friend who also had two big dogs. But as he ages, he’s less agreeable. He snaps at her. We only do car trips, or trips where one of us goes, and one of us stays home with Murphy.

The first time he has to stay at the vet for a few hours without us, he chews through the leash. He’s put into a kennel where he rubs the side of his face against the wire so hard he bleeds. After that incident, a vet tech is assigned to hang out with him, his own private dog sitter, at every single appointment. He is muzzled and is given many treats and pets.

As he ages, his hind end atrophies. Arthritis settles into his hips. We car camp a lot. Once, we try to take him climbing, where he can hang out with the belayer, but we can’t get him to the crag. The trail is too steep.

At one point, there’s a large step-up. Jay tries to lift Murphy up but he despises being lifted like a baby. He whines and bites Jay on the face.

We skip climbing that day.

In the last year of his life, Murphy wears diapers, or handsome boy pants (because he’s a handsome boy), all the time. His incontinence progresses in direct relation to his ability to walk. His hind end gives out more and more frequently.

I work from home, luckily, and become his primary caregiver. Now, instead of hikes and car camping, we do slow walks and lots of floor snuggles. Soon, he can only play without walking; then without standing. Our lives revolve around what Murphy needs.

We do the work. We love him. What else would we do?

Now, he is gone. It’s only been a few days. But the question lives at the back of my mind: Who are we without Murphy? The dynamic of our household has shifted. It feels as though now it’s just me and Jay in our marriage, which is silly. Of course it’s always been the two of us.

But Murphy was such a big presence in our lives. I married them both.

Here’s what I do know: the space in our hearts left by Murphy will neither expand nor contract. It’s always been infinite. We’ll spend the time with each other, with A, go on vacations in Manhattan and Mexico and Portugal. Go on backpacking trips.

Eventually, we’ll run across another being who needs us. A dog, another cat. A racoon (you never know with us).

And we’ll love them, just like we loved Murphy.

Hi! My name is Diane and I’m a mom, writer, content marketer, and outdoor enthusiast navigating this chaotic and often ridiculous world while dealing with POTS, chronic EBV, and overactive mast cells.

I write about the craft of writing, chronic conditions, work and career shenanigans, and life outside my front door (which is behind an active Seattle bus stop!).