Five years since my last blog entry, and I’m sitting here staring at the blinking cursor, not even sure where to begin.
Almost fourteen years ago, I walked into the pound and met this tiny, furious, terrified chihuahua mix who would end up changing my entire life. We named her Willow—Princess Willow Rosenberg Brave‑Fisher, because of course she needed a full royal title. She had this reddish‑brown fur that reminded me of Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the moment I saw her, she was in the corner of the pen barking at every dog who dared breathe in her direction. She was shaking so hard I could see it from across the room, and she wouldn’t look at anyone.
I knelt down beside the pen and whispered, “Everything’s going to be alright, little girl.” And somehow, against all odds, she believed me. She walked over, pressed her tiny head against the bars, and let me touch her. That was it. I was done for. Love at first sight isn’t just for movies.
I had to wait ten long days to bring her home. She had a microchip, and the shelter had to try to contact her previous owner. When they finally reached them, the owner said they didn’t want her back. She hadn’t been spayed, so that had to happen too. They estimated she was maybe 12 to 18 months old, and she weighed barely five pounds. I visited her every single day until I could take her home. By the time I finally did, she’d lost almost a pound from stress and not eating.
The day after she came home, she spiked a fever and started coughing up thick phlegm. Pneumonia. I sat up with her for two nights straight, listening to her tiny body struggle to breathe, praying she’d pull through. She did. She got stronger. She gained weight. She became this sturdy, confident little 14‑pound queen who ruled our house with absolute authority.
Eight years later, I was sitting up with her again—this time after she’d been mauled by a much bigger dog. Multiple surgeries. A body cast for four weeks. A recovery that felt endless. But she fought. She always fought.
For thirteen and a half years, she has been glued to me—my shadow, my camping buddy, my bedtime snuggler, my little heartbeat that sleeps pressed against my side every night. I’ve loved every dog I’ve ever had, but Willow… Willow is different. She’s woven into me.
And now she’s dying.
Liver cancer. We’re down to days, maybe hours, and I feel like I’m breaking open. I thought I could prepare myself. I really did. But there’s no preparing for this kind of goodbye.
I’ve lost so many people in my life—my dad, my mom, my brother, all my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. I know what grief feels like. I know how it settles into your bones. But this one… this one is hitting differently. Maybe it’s the pandemic stress. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s just that she’s been my constant in a world that hasn’t felt steady for a long time.
She’s lying a few feet away from me right now, exhausted from last night’s emergency vet visit. Every time she lifts her head and looks at me, my heart cracks a little more. There’s pain in her eyes, and confusion, and trust. Always trust. And all I want is to make her better. To fix it. To trade places with her. But I can’t. And that helplessness is its own kind of grief.
I don’t know why I’m writing this except that I needed to put these feelings somewhere. I needed to say her name. I needed to honor this little soul who walked into my life shaking with fear and somehow became the bravest part of me.
I don’t know how to let her go. I just know I have to love her through it.
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