What My Dog Taught Me About Staying, Even As He Was Leaving

A love letter to the dog who walked me through everything

Howie and Hannah on the camper bed—before the humans climbed in.

We weren’t planning to bring him.

Our camper, a tiny A-Liner we nicknamed Trailer Swift, barely fits two people and one big German shepherd. Add an elderly labradoodle, and you’ve got a very cozy situation. But the night before we left for Maumee Bay, Howie fell down the stairs.

There wasn’t even a conversation. Just a quiet agreement: He’s coming with us.

My husband Mike and I didn’t say it, but I think we both knew.

This would be his last trip.

The Marsh and the Refinery

To reach Maumee Bay, you drive through several miles of industry—refineries, smokestacks, the kind of landscape that feels like it doesn’t care whether you’re coming or going. I remember looking out the window and thinking, This is where we’re camping?

But just past the rust and smoke, the road softens. Wetlands stretch out in quiet layers. Birds drift across cattail-lined marshes. The campground itself is tucked into a corner of calm. Like someone built a sanctuary where no one would think to look.

That contrast stayed with me the whole time we were there. Because the truth is, two things can be true at once. A place can be industrial and peaceful. A dog can be dying and still deeply alive. You can feel ready to let go, and not ready at all.

Snug in the Storm

It rained for most of the first two days.

The four of us—me, my husband, my two dogs—spent hours wedged into that little camper bed like a slow-cooked family of introverts. Howie hated when Hannah touched him, which she did often, mostly by accident. Everyone was grumpy.

But when the rain stopped, we stepped outside and stretched. And I noticed something: Howie wasn’t panting or pacing like he did at home. He wasn’t anxious. He was calm. Snug. Present.

I think he just wanted to be near us. To be part of it all.

And he was. Every step of it.

The First Dog That Was All Mine

Howie came into my life during a time when everything else was leaving. I was going through a divorce, moving out of my home, trying to hold it together for my kids. I told myself I wanted a dog who was just mine.

He was the only black puppy in a litter of twelve. The breeder said he was adventurous—the one who kept sneaking out of the pen.

That sounded about right.

He was my co-conspirator from day one. On our first solo backpacking trip, we came across a porcupine and I froze, sure he’d try to chase it. But he didn’t. He barked a few times and stood his ground. He knew better. That’s when I realized: Oh. I can trust this dog.

And I did.

Through thunder and heartbreak. Through blindness and healing. Through so many versions of me I’ve almost forgotten.

The Quiet Goodbye

We didn’t plan anything. There was no dramatic collapse. No cinematic moment.

Just that quiet knowing.

We took him to the vet. My husband and I sat on the floor, petting his soft ears, telling him he was a good boy. That he didn’t have to be afraid. And when it was over, I had to leave the room. I let the full force of grief hit me as I sobbed in the car.

For me, he was already gone.

But Mike stayed. He stroked his fur, whispered who knows what. And I’m grateful for that. In the end, Howie had two people holding him steady. Just like he’d done for us, again and again.

Everybody Loves Howie

It was a joke we’d say when people met him—“Everybody loves Howie”—in the voice of that sitcom brother from Everybody Loves Raymond. But it was true.

Howie didn’t have to perform. He didn’t beg for attention or try to charm you. He just showed up exactly as he was, and somehow, that was enough.

I think that’s what he taught me. That you don’t have to be extraordinary to be unforgettable. You just have to be real.

The Space He Made

There’s an ache now. But also a kind of quiet. I no longer trip over him with my limited vision. Hannah no longer competes for space or status. We can travel more freely. There are practical things that are easier.

But I miss him.

The way he filled a room with presence instead of noise. The way he waited for me. The way he made the hard things feel survivable just by being there.

🌿 Mini Eulogy: A Trailside Farewell to Howie

You were never just a dog.
You were the steady presence through everything that unraveled and everything that bloomed.
You were my trail anchor, my brave little shadow, my loyal witness.
You waited when I slowed down. You stayed when things got hard.
And when it was time, you let go—with quiet grace.

Thank you for showing me how to stay, even when it’s hard.
Thank you for loving without conditions.
Thank you for walking me home.

🥾 For the Trail Ahead

If you’ve ever lost a trail companion—furry or otherwise—you know: the ache is real. But so is the beauty they leave behind.

Take them with you.
Not in memory. In presence.
In the way you love. The way you show up. The way you stay.

Tell me about your Howie:

Who (or what) has walked beside you through your hardest seasons? I’d love to hear your stories—drop them in the comments or take them on your next hike.

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