Yesterday, I said goodbye to my best friend.

Her name was Xandy.

And though some people will say, “She was just a dog,” anyone who has ever loved an animal deeply knows better than that.

She wasn’t just a dog.

She was companionship.
She was comfort.
She was consistency.
She was home.

For the last nine years, Xandy has walked beside me through some of the hardest and most beautiful seasons of my life. Through divorce. Through rebuilding. Through motherhood and grandmotherhood. Through heartbreak, healing, growth, and becoming.

She was there for all of it.

Always nearby.
Always faithful.
Always ready to lay beside me, steal food she absolutely should not have been eating, or remind us all that squirrels were, in fact, a daily emergency.

Three weeks ago, everything changed.

What we thought was vestibular disease came on suddenly. One day she could walk, and the next, she couldn’t. I truly believed I was going to lose her that first night.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I was given three more weeks.

And now I understand what a gift those weeks were.

Because she wasn’t ripped away suddenly.

We had time.

Time to love her.
Time to slow down.
Time to say goodbye.

Yesterday morning, before her appointment, I had just booked a trip to the beach for her and my other golden retriever.

For months, I had this thought repeating in my mind:

I need to get Xandy to the beach.

She loved to run. Loved to walk. Loved adventure.

And even though her body was failing, I still found myself telling her:

“I’m going to get you to that beach, girl.”

And the beautiful thing is… I still will.

I’m going to take her ashes there.
I’m going to plant a tree for her at my home.
I’m going to carry pieces of her with me on hikes and in quiet moments and in stories told around the people who loved her too.

Because love doesn’t simply end when breathing does.

At the vet’s office yesterday, something sacred happened.

My youngest son—who I hadn’t heard from all day—texted me at the exact moment the vet came in to begin the process.

“Mom, I’m here. I came to see Xandy.”

And somehow, we were able to pause long enough for him to get there before the medication was given. He was able to sit with her while she was still fully present. He got to love her, touch her, speak to her.

And then he stayed until the very end.

That moment alone felt like grace.

As I sat beside her, I told her everything I needed her to know.

I told her what a faithful friend she had been.
I told her how deeply she was loved.
I told her she didn’t have to suffer anymore.
And I told her she was going to run again.

No pain.
No slowing down.
No failing body.

Just running.

Free.

This is the first time in my life I feel like I’ve truly lost a friend.

And what surprises me most is not just the grief—but the gratitude sitting beside it.

Because grief, I’m realizing, is not evidence that we loved wrong.

It’s evidence that we loved deeply.

That we allowed ourselves to attach.
To connect.
To be changed by someone’s presence.

And the cost of loving deeply is that eventually, we grieve deeply too.

But I would not trade this pain for the privilege of having loved her.

Not for one second.

Over these last three weeks, I’ve also realized something else:

I’m finally allowing myself to fully feel.

Not stuffing emotions down.
Not bypassing them.
Not pretending to be okay.

Just allowing the waves to come… and then letting them go.

And maybe that’s part of what Xandy gave me too.

Presence.

Because when you know time is limited, even briefly, it changes how you love.

It makes you softer.
More attentive.
More grateful for ordinary moments.

And while I know we can’t realistically live every day asking, “What if this is the last time?”… I do think there’s wisdom in remembering none of us truly know our timelines.

Not ours.
Not the people we love.
Not the dogs who quietly carry us through life.

So maybe the invitation is simply this:

To be here while we’re here.

To love fully while we can.

To say the things.
To take the walk.
To linger a little longer.
To be present enough to actually experience the people—and animals—we love while they’re still beside us.

Because in the end, I think that’s what matters most.

Not perfection.
Not productivity.
Not rushing through life trying to get somewhere else.

But love.

Deep, authentic, fully present love.

And what a gift it is to experience that at all.

Run free, sweet girl.

I’ll get you to the beach.