Some stories begin with a once upon a time. Mine starts with a pair of big, brown eyes and a wagging tail. The day I met him, he was curled up in the corner of the shelter, a little ball of nervous energy with a coat the color of cinnamon and eyes that looked like they held a hundred lifetimes. I didn’t know then that he would change my life. I didn’t know that he would become my companion, my shadow, my constant. I only knew that he needed a home—and I needed something I couldn’t yet name.
I named him Milo.
From the moment we left the shelter, something clicked. He sat in the back seat, panting softly, every now and then reaching his nose toward the front, just to make sure I was still there. At first, he was cautious—walking tentatively through the rooms of my small apartment, sniffing everything, slowly discovering his new world. But within a few days, he settled in like he’d always belonged. His bed was by the window, where the sunlight poured in, and he would spend hours there, ears perked, watching the world go by.
Milo was more than just a dog. He had a way of understanding things—emotions, silences, moods—that made me believe he was sent to me for a reason. He knew when I was tired, when I was heartbroken, when I was filled with joy. He had a way of leaning into me when I needed grounding and doing something goofy—like chasing his tail or tossing a sock in the air—when I needed to laugh.
Our days fell into a rhythm. Morning walks before the world woke up. Coffee for me, treats for him. Long weekend hikes through the woods, where he’d run just far enough ahead to make me nervous, then stop and look back to make sure I was still coming. Evenings spent curled up on the couch, his head resting on my lap as we watched movies or simply listened to the quiet.
There was a park near our apartment that became “our” place. Every afternoon, we’d head there—him tugging at the leash with anticipation, me following with a smile. He loved chasing squirrels he could never catch, rolling in the grass, and greeting every person and dog as if he’d known them all his life. People in the neighborhood began to recognize us. They didn’t always remember my name—but they knew Milo. “That sweet brown dog,” they’d say. And he was.
There was one winter that was especially hard for me. A lot of things in my life were shifting—relationships, work, the sense of who I was. There were days I didn’t want to leave the bed. Days I felt like I was moving through fog. But Milo never let me stay stuck for long. He would come to my side, place his chin on the edge of the bed, and look at me with those eyes. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. His presence was enough. He reminded me that even on the hardest days, there was something worth getting up for. A walk. A game of fetch. A pair of ears that perked up at the sound of my voice.
One of my favorite memories is of a road trip we took, just the two of us. I loaded up the car with snacks, a camera, his favorite toys, and no real destination. We drove through winding back roads, stopped at lakes and small towns, and slept under the stars. Milo loved the wind in his face, his ears flapping, eyes wide with joy. He’d rest his paw on the center console like he was claiming his spot as co-pilot. Those few days felt like freedom—just the two of us against the open road. I didn’t know you could feel that much peace.
Milo got older, as dogs do. His face turned gray around the muzzle. He walked a little slower, slept a little more. But he was still Milo. Still my boy. Still the same loyal, gentle presence who met me at the door every day like I was the best thing he’d ever seen. And in his eyes, I believed it.
The day I said goodbye to him is one I carry gently in my heart. There are no words to explain that kind of loss. It’s not just the absence of fur and paws—it’s the silence where laughter used to be, the empty leash hanging by the door, the space on the couch that feels too big without him.
I held him as he went, whispering thank you into his ear, over and over again. Thank you for the love. The joy. The healing. The years. Thank you for being mine.
In the weeks that followed, I found myself seeing him everywhere—in the corner of my eye, in the sound of nails clicking on hardwood, in the way the light hit his favorite spot by the window. I kept thinking, “He was just here.” And in a way, he still is.
Grief is strange. It softens and sharpens at the same time. But even in the heaviness, I feel something deeper: gratitude. Because not everyone gets a Milo. Not everyone gets a brown dog who teaches them how to love, how to be present, how to heal. And I did.
Now, years later, I still visit that same park sometimes. I’ll sit on the same bench we always returned to and close my eyes. I can almost hear the jingle of his collar, the patter of his paws, the gentle nudge of his nose against my leg. I smile at the memory—not with sadness, but with a kind of quiet joy. Because he was real. He was mine. And he left me better than he found me.
So, here’s to the brown dogs. The ones who find us when we need them most. The ones who leave paw prints not just on our floors, but on our hearts. The ones who stay, even after they’re gone.
Here’s to Milo—and all the memories he gave me.
