Oh, Milo. 

I have struggled to write Milo’s story and “introduce” him in the scope of this blog. Mostly because I feel like in order to tell his story, I have to revisit and acknowledge that Stella is gone. 

That’s still really hard. 

We’re right at a year for when everything began to unravel with her health and I still find myself failing to hold it together at the most random of times. I also question and doubt myself about that time, often wishing I had spent more time on the couch with her or taking her on walks that she loved and hated with the same amount of passion. 

I know that there’s no amount of time that would have been the right amount of time to process letting her go – but it doesn’t make it easier.

That stubborn, 65-pounds of fluff made her mark on my world in a way I never expected, and I’ll forever be a better person because of it. 

Those fresh feelings and open wounds of loss made me very doubtful for bringing another dog into my life… at least during any time frame that could constitute as too soon. Getting used to four less legs tapping along my hardwood floors wasn’t easy and I’m not sure I really completed that phase of grief. Regardless, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do the whole “get a dog” thing all over again. 

Getting another dog meant all of the fun that comes with a puppy, but also all of the heartache for if something went wrong down the road.

The fact that it has taken me almost 8 months to write about it is probably a metaphor for how hesitant I was.  

But on a random day in April, I was scrolling through Facebook when this very large, floppy-eared puppy was posted on a local vet’s page. I’m honestly not sure what it was… but I knew. 

That sounds cliche, but it’s true. I also knew that it wouldn’t be long before he was scooped up by someone else.

I sent his photo and the post to Matt with “I want him. He’s meant to be mine.” And before I knew it, messages were swapped and Matt went by the vet to get the paperwork started. 

Within two days, this very timid puppy was brought to my house. He sniffed around for a bit and then immediately crawled in my lap like he belonged there. His foster home said that he had been the most timid of the litter and hadn’t connected with too many. But somehow, he knew I was his. 

He crashed on the couch between myself and Matt his first night at the house and went FAST to sleep. It was the sweetest darn thing, but y’all… it was the defining calm before the storm. 

And by storm, I mean Milo came in like a friggin’ wrecking ball. 

Wild Wild Milo

I have not been shy about how Milo has been his own version of a holy terror. He has not been a low-maintenance puppy. 

His momma was 100% Siberian Husky, and while we’re not totally sure what dad was – he definitely has the genes of both Australian and German Shepherds.

He looks like no other dog I’ve ever seen and his energy levels are over the top – always.

Because what do you get with the possibility of three working breeds wound up in the most awkwardly shaped body?

Milo. You get Milo. 

I’ll pause here to say that Stella spoiled me. She was THE VERY BEST PUPPY. 

Because she was fostered for a lengthy amount of time, she came to me potty trained. She was six months old when I transitioned her from the crate to free roam the house throughout the day.

I was worried I wouldn’t get that lucky again.

Aaaaand, I was right. 

Milo peed on anything and everything – EVERYTHING – for the first three months I had him.

He destroys every toy he is given. He loves one toy the most – but has ripped (literally) through three of them.

And while he does sleep all night and is very lazy in the morning, he is ready. to. go. at night. 

It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t mind us. We’re just surviving instead of thriving. 

For example: As I’m writing this from the couch – snuggled under a blanket ready to call it a night – the little terror just ripped through my living room from being outside – in the rain – drenched with muddy paws.

He jumped all over the couch. And, when I used all the dang words to imply “GET THE **** OFF MY COUCH AND CALM DOWN,” it only ramped him up even more. 

He thought it was a fun game of chase… all while leaving muddy paw marks all over everything. 

It’s at this point where I picked up the phone and told Matt to come get his dog. This isn’t the first time these words have been sent to him.

It’s not all bad.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I have said more curse words and thought twice about bringing him home several times over. But, it’s really not THAT bad (maybe – most days at least).

He has slowly morphed into the sweetest (when he wants to be) and gentlest of giants. 

He loves super big and makes me laugh when I don’t even realize I need to. 

Daily, he’s growing into his own personality – strong willed – but his own, nonetheless. And, when I’m not looking… he does what I need him to. 

He’s finally housebroken (mostly – thankfully). 

He lets me know when he wants something, or really when he disagrees. He’s very vocal – and “No!” seems to be his trigger word.

He sits, shakes, gives high fives and rolls over.

He goes straight to his kennel (most days) when it’s time for me to go to work. 

And! He’s really, really good with other people.

He’s not a fan of “No” and “Off” just yet, but I have high hopes that we’ll get there… maybe… eventually. 

At 9 months old, he’s tipped the scale of 50lbs and his head finally grew into his ears. His body is trying really hard to catch up to his head, but we’ve still got some time on that one. 

Apparently, he’s no where near being done on the growth scale.

[send help]

Grief is weird, but joy is not.

Losing Stella is still one of the hardest things I’ve had to do as an adult. Processing those emotions wasn’t easy (still isn’t).

Opening my heart and home to another dog somehow felt traitorous. Like I was erasing her memory somehow.

Honest? It took me awhile to realize that nothing could do that. 

It also took me a minute to know I could still lean into being sad about Stella when it happens from time to time, but still laugh at something Milo did. One didn’t cancel out the other or have to exist a part from each other.

Because even beyond the grave, Stella is teaching me all the things.

If anything, I’m beginning to believe that Milo was a part of Stella’s masterplan to pay me back for every walk I made her go on or for every time I woke her up from her slumber. 

This whole thing has definitely been its own adjustment and has come with a steep learning curve, but the joy he has provided is new (and welcomed).

I’m grateful.

Despite the lessons learned and ALL OF THE FEELINGS, I am 110% convinced that there are few things that compare to the feeling of coming home after a long day to a dog who doesn’t care about anything more than ear scratches, belly rubs and a stroll around the neighborhood.

Lucky for me, Milo loves all three. And with the path of persistence we’re currently traveling, I’m sure he will be a part of life lessons (especially in the patience category) for years to come.

I’ve been a member of Versus Strength and Conditioning for a little more than six years. SIX YEARS. For reference, that’s longer than any long term relationship or any job I’ve held – and a hefty 55-60% of the time I’ve called myself a Hattiesburg resident.

I refer to them as my safe space, and I recently told Steve (owner and coach extraordinaire) that the 2012 version of me would have never imagined needing them as much as the 2018 version of me did need them.

He, along with Mike, Kellar, Matt, Jamie, Nate and Anna have all championed me through half-marathons, new skills and the never-ending rehab of a jankety shoulder. But more than that, they’ve helped me cultivate a mindset that allows me to push through the hard stuff – like in 2018 when the job got harder (and harder), my best friend moved (what feels like) a bajillion miles away and when Stella the dog died.

2018 wasn’t a complete jerk; but frankly, country songs have had better endings than those last few months did for me. Regardless – no matter how tired, sad or emotionally depleted I felt – I found my way to my friends in an aluminum building and at a train station who helped me push through the day.

I can’t tell you how many times a simple text message from a coach or our workout crew kept me from spiraling to the most comfortable, yet dangerous, space for an introvert: on my couch, alone. They kept me from internalizing and dwelling on the hard stuff. Instead, they provided an alternative solution by encouraging me to show up each day.

Long day at work? Show up.

Sad feelings about missing my best friend? Show up.

The day after Stella passed, I asked Steve if I could just come use the rower. I didn’t want to do a workout, but I needed to do something. He told me to show up.

At the very least, I am a rule follower. So, I did.

Throughout this season and like many others, showing up was the easiest decision to make and also the hardest thing to do. I had to trust that the rest would fall into place if I just got there.

Spoiler alert: it did. I made it to 2019 with my feet somehow still on the ground largely in part because of this place and these people.

I really shouldn’t be surprised by that. For everything that I’ve ever thought was too hard or unreachable, they’ve encouraged me to go, do and endeavor. While not always successful, my journey to being a better human has been chronicled through my relationship with some of the best coaches and people I get to sweat alongside.

Consistency is greater than intensity.

Thanks to the recommendation of a few coaches, I’ve been reading/listening to habit philosophies by James Clear. He specializes in how we build and maintain habits and how they play an integral role in achieving goals. Oddly enough, it all ties back to the art of showing up (regardless of the arena you are in).

He said recently in an interview on a podcast, “Be the girl who puts on her running shoes each day – not the girl who aspires to run three miles.”

I’m a list maker, a doer and a goal setter. I like crossing things off a list. I like being held accountable for doing what I said I would do. However, shifting the perspective from goal setting to building and maintaining an environment for success was a lightbulb moment.

Simply put – if we don’t prepare our environment for what we’re trying to do, we’ll never get to a place where we succeed.

With a job that produces tasks that need to be completed at the rate of water spewing out of a fire hose, I live daily with the expectation that nothing will be the same as the day before.

If I could paint a picture of total anxiety for someone who loves structure, boundaries and rules – this is probably it. It took me awhile to adjust, but it also provided an opportunity to build and create systems that help me prioritize and mitigate the day.

For me, that includes waking up at dark-thirty, putting on my shoes and showing up to put in some sweat equity for an hour or so before the day begins.

The alternative is a drastic shift in my day, I don’t feel like I can organize clear, cohesive thoughts, my energy levels are low and I’m downright grumpy.

Y’all, this is the equivalent of me showing up to run a race with only one shoe tied, completely dehydrated and my shirt inside out.

Consistently showing up has made a vast difference in my life throughout my time with Versus, but specifically over the last several months.

When I walk through the gym doors or find my way to the train station platform, I’m greeted with motivation to do harder things that continue to aid in building a better/tougher mindset to tackle the day ahead of me.

I joined Versus all those years ago for the same reasons everyone joins a gym – to feel better about myself physically. But, the reward of consistency over intensity has been so much more.

Trusting the process.

I have the patience of a toddler, and six years is a long time to see the other side. But, I think that’s what has made this whole thing more special. It’s also allowed me a better understanding of how being better emotionally and physically goes hand-in-hand with hard work and a consistent effort. For me, this translates directly to real life application.

I have some very lofty goals for this Spring: sub-27 minute 5K, a faster 10K and Vested MURPH are at the top. Weight loss is in there somewhere, too. But, I’ll never get there if I don’t show up.

In addition to showing up consistently, I’ve been putting in extra work after the gym and on the weekends. I’m also in the throes of better food habits. Rabbits don’t have anything on my ability to put down a raw bell pepper as a snack.

But real, honest moment? The scale hasn’t moved and some training days leave me feeling so defeated. What keeps me going is the fact that this is all about more than crossing a finish line and checking off a goal.

It’s about a lifestyle of choices that leave me feeling better and capable of tackling whatever is ahead of me.

Years like 2018 will always be around. 2019 may be better, but hell – it might be a repeat. Regardless – mental toughness, the ability to show up and do hard things, will continue to be the byproduct of the physical work I put in. All of which is only amplified by a team of people who continue to believe in me.

If you don’t have a Versus, you should find one. Surrounding yourself with people who can keep you moving even when you feel like you can’t is worth its weight in gold. Iron sharpens iron.

Grief is a weird thing.

It’s also probably a weird thing to open this blog with, but whatever – it’s my party. I’ll do what I want.

I don’t mean that the scope of the grief process is weird. But its timing… how it manifests itself in the most random of ways – that, that is the part that has been so weird for me.

For the last few weeks, I’ve tried (failed) to adjust to having four less legs in my home. It’s been exactly three weeks since I said goodbye to Stella Dog. And, it hasn’t been the moments when someone asks about her or asks how I’m doing that have taken me down. It’s been the sounds that aren’t there any longer.

The crunching of fabric in her bed as she made no less than and no more than three circles before snuggling in for the night, right next to my bed.

The jingle of her dog tags when she decided I was sound asleep and that the couch was a comfier bed than her own.

The constant shuffling of blinds on the door as she would stick her head around them in an effort to see outside. Her cue that I didn’t raise the blinds on schedule so she could adequately begin her day.

The barking when she would hear my car door shut.

The tapping of her nails on my floors as she raced inside (at a breakneck speed) for a treat.

And, her low breathed growl because the cat across the street was standing in my front yard taunting her – again.

Every day, I’ve looked for these sounds that have grown a part of my routine for the last eight years. I listen so hard for them, but they don’t come.

Yesterday, I glanced at the front door and realized I’ve still been raising the blinds on the front door so she can see outside. It was a split second thought while I was taking off my shoes from work, and it broke me.

Therein lies the hardest part of grief – its jolt of randomness.

Those moments were woven into the fabric of our days, but I didn’t realize it. Now, the lack of them catches me off guard at a variety of times. It punches me in the gut and an overwhelming sense of sadness creeps in.

Sometimes, tears fall. Sometimes, I try to lean into the sadness. But most of the time? I gather my things and I bolt… to the store to pick up something I really don’t need, to get in a workout or back to work.

Feelings, emotions and all the things that go with them have always been hard for me. And while logic tells me that Stella was never meant to be with me forever, that this day was going to come (whether in a few days or 10 years), logic doesn’t matter.

Grief doesn’t pay attention to the logic of “what.”

Four legs or two, it’s still loss.

And, it should be said that I genuinely thought I had experienced heartbreak before; but, nope. Past relationships and lost friendships have absolutely nothing on what I experienced while sitting on the cement floor of the vet’s office.

Real heartbreak happens when you hold the boss of snuggles and the keeper of all of your secrets as she lets go.

Processing the time.

I’m a friend of logic. I lead with thinking instead of risking. I absolutely, 110% did not have enough time to process and think about the decisions I had to make in the last few days of her time with me.

If I had to pinpoint the exact thing that eats at me a bit, it’s this. I know I would have never had enough time, but I don’t feel like I got even a sliver.

In under eight weeks, we went through several vet visits and what felt like a hundred blood tests. We knew something was causing her to have a few symptoms that seemed non-life threatening, but she acted as normal as she always has (for the scope of what normal was like for Stella).

She didn’t whine, act scared or even whimper. Not to mention, her blood tests came back good – across the board – every single time. At no point did I think what was ailing her might be cancer or even that she had been fighting it for a very long time.

A heightened calcium level presented a need for a final exam that revealed two masses. And in a matter of 48-hours, just shy of celebrating her 8th year with me, she became a completely different dog.

Stella was motivated by food her entire life. She would knock you over for the treat in your hand – or even your own food. When she wouldn’t eat real bacon, I knew something was really wrong.

In two days… she was gone.

Two days.

Stella’s story.

Stella was around for every adult decision I made after graduating college. She was a part of keystone moments in me figuring out who I am and what I want out of life.

In a column I wrote for a local paper in mid-2017, I talked about my very specific story with Stella.

How I had zero compassion levels when I brought her home.

How she never clamored for my attention as a puppy – a few snuggles and then she was good to go lie on her corner of the couch.

How she would sit in the middle of the road, just because she could.

How she challenged my patience in every which way, but taught me a world about loyalty, grace and love.

How she helped me grow up and become a better adult.

I think those are the moments that made her more than just a dog. And even in the last of her time with me, she continued to teach me about pushing through obvious pain, loving with abandon and stubbornly fighting against the inevitable regardless of the inevitable.

The oncologist believed she may have had cancer for almost 18 months, if not longer. I’ve doubled back through every sign or symptom that might have been there, and I’ve come up empty handed.

Stella lived her life without giving way to the things she couldn’t control. She snuggled. She tore through cheeseburgers at a lightning speed, she backed into as many back and ear scratches as possible, she jumped for treats, did tricks on command and took every walk like it was the last one.

We could probably all learn a thing or two about living life from her.

The grief will pass.

I know that the bulk of grief will eventually pass. Those punches and random moments won’t always cause as much sadness. And one day, the random moments will trigger reflection of a life well-loved and lived.

But for today, I am trying to lean into the sadness, to be present and to feel my way through the hard emotions. And in true Stella-fashion, she’s still teaching me in her own stubborn way.