He stepped his little yellow paws into the cold, clean water that filled his brand new stainless bowl. And stared.

At us.

His new owners.

Two not-quite-newlywed-but-still-young Carolina kids over 2,000 miles away from home, settling into a new home in Arizona.

Two kids who moved across the country with the taste of adventure on their tongues.

A month later, those two kids had fresh new jobs, so we took the next logical step any young married couple would do: we got a puppy.

We named him Trajan after a roman emperor with architectural ties. Given my graphic design background at the time, I loved the idea that the name was also a font (but of course). So it stuck.

We spent hours training him. Teaching him to paw a bell when he wanted to go out. Sit. Shake. Whisper. Bow. Roll over. Play dead.

We took him on adventures big and small. Making fast friends at the dog park. Trotting through long, sometimes steep hikes. Chilling at camp sites with his dog buddies. He’s even seen the Grand Canyon.

And boy did he love to swim.

Most people in Arizona have pools, so he took any possible opportunity to jump in and swim swim swim. God made labradors for that.

Fast forward 13.5 years.

We’re now two newly-40 adults living back in the Carolinas (just the north one this time). Except we now have kids of our own. Their childhood came with a dog. The default setting. An ever-present part of growing up. They know no other way.

Our kids don’t really remember much of the energetic, adventurous Trajan. As the kids grew to form memories that stay tucked in their heads, there were only glimpses of that version of Trajan. And there were definitely no traces of the unsure little pup that sat in my lap on the car ride to his forever home. He was cozy and comfortable with his life, even if his body eventually wasn’t.

He had a host of health issues that would rival any old man: diabetes for 8 years, blindness for 6, one “dead” eye for 3, Cushing’s Disease for a few years, deafness for around 18 months, and so on.

Yet he was resilient in every way possible.

He hadn’t slept through the night with any regularity for a few years. And neither had we. Instead, we’d sleepily shuffle from the downstairs master bedroom to the back door to let him out in the middle of the night. Multiple times a night.

Because that’s what pet owners do. What we need to do. We adapt, even if it’s inconvenient.

And when he started losing control of his legs a few months ago, we’d reach underneath him and boost his body up so he could walk to his destination. Sometimes 20 times a day.

Because that’s what you do.

And when he started losing control of his bowels and didn’t even realize what happened until it happened, we’d just grab some toilet paper and clean it up.

Because that’s what you do.

Upon learning Trajan was going blind years ago, I remember a vet told us “you should consider not keeping him since you have young children at home.” We never spoke to her again. It never even crossed our mind that he wouldn’t be with us until the end, no matter his conditions.

Because when your dog is family, that’s what you do.

We gave him almost 6,000 injections over the years. Probably 200 doses of his weekly chemo pills (for Cushing’s). And who knows how much other medicine. And we would have kept it up even longer.

But he was ready to let go.

Trajan, the lab who used to run laps around the backyard, full of excitement.
Trajan, who left a bare spot in the grass because he loved to roll in that exact spot.
Trajan, who’d perch his muzzle at the edge of the couch, hoping for some buttery popcorn.

Trajan, the wonder lab who went on so many adventures big and small, was weary.

When I made the call to talk to our vet to discuss his worsening health from that week, I told him I guess I was waiting for an event that would make the choice from us. And he, knowing Trajan so well, said, “Trajan is a fighter. He just rolls with the punches, so I don’t know you’ll get that from him.”

He was right.

The truth was that Trajan had been giving us “events” for months. Like tremors that come before an earthquake. The nighttime roaming, the panting, the back legs not working, the days I’d come home from work to find him laying in the floor because he couldn’t get up. In isolation they were easier to accept, but when you started to connect the dots, you saw the bigger picture of his health. And it wasn’t good.

Deep breaths, I told myself.

It will be okay.

He will be free of his limiting body.

He belongs there now.

I picked up the phone and made the appointment. After I hung up the phone, Daniel and I held each other on the back porch and sobbed.

…

Emperor Trajan of Arizona was put to sleep on a Tuesday. He was three months shy of 14 years old.

I took the kids to my mom’s after they gave Trajan one last hug around the neck and pat on the head.

A few days before, we had told the kids the news. All four of us sat on a couch and bawled.

The kids had never seen their dad cry before. The staggering news paired with the evidence of their parents’ pain showed in their eyes. I won’t forget that.

The next few days were filled with lots of Trajan time and treat giving. His last dinner was a Five Guys burger. I sat on the floor with him and shared a bowl of popcorn. He got one last walk with just Daniel and me, sniffing all there was to sniff.

Then we hoisted him into the car for one last ride, with the windows down so he could feel the spring breeze on his face. He couldn’t see and he couldn’t hear, but feel he could. And he did.

The experience was heart-wrenching, but I couldn’t imagine not being there for him.

It started with us. Picking up a yellow, floppy-pawed pup that would change our lives.

It ended with us. Stroking the body of a soft-eared, hazy-eyed dog as his final moment slipped from the earth.

He softly passed to a world where he’s running free with eyes that can see, ears that can hear, and legs that don’t give out.

We puddled in the floor beside him, crying over his body that still remained. He, however, had moved on.

A piece of me floated away with him that day. When I looked at Trajan, I saw an old pup who lived a long, happy life. I saw my life reflected. A life when it was just two young souls with an adventurous dog. A life with children running through the house and a loyal dog by their side. Me going through my 20s, 30s, and turning the corner of 40.

From a prancing puppy to unsteady old dog, I witnessed the full life of God’s creature within a sliver of my own.

He embodied a piece of time. And that time was now gone.

—

Parts of Trajan still linger around the house.

A ball of fur in the corner. A bone under the couch. A dog bed with his imprints still visible.

We now also have his ashes in an unadorned mahogany box. And a beautiful portrait of him my sister painted. He’s with us, even if I don’t hear the clicking of his paws traipsing across the hardwoods any longer.

Sometimes I cry because he’s gone, and sometimes I still walk through the door thinking he’ll be laying in our bedroom floor.

Loss screams in your face, then is faint like a whisper. And back and forth and back and forth.

But faith reminds you that it’ll all be okay.

It’ll be okay.

Snow has never quite been my thing.

I grew up in the South, where snow doesn’t happen all too often.

I’ve never skied in my life.

I did spent a few days snowboarding in Colorado one year and my tailbone hurt for two weeks after.

While I love the look of snow, I’d much prefer hiking in the Arizona desert (though we did have fun sledding today).

You know what else isn’t really my thing? Valentine’s Day. While we’ve definitely celebrated Valentine’s, it’s not my favorite holiday of the year for sure. Too commercialized for my taste.

Yet today, two days shy of Valentine’s Day, I sat in my warm house with my heart-pounding at the thought of my husband of 13 years not making it home in the snow.

Yesterday morning he went to work per the usual. I work from home on Wednesdays, but had the kids with me since school was closed in anticipation of the crazy winter storm coming our way. Sure enough, shortly after lunch, the snow started coming down.

First the is-that-really-snow specks in the air.

Then BAM, snowing hard.

By the time my hubby Daniel left work, pretty much every other worker in the city was leaving work too. It didn’t take long to realize this was going to take a while. His normal drive is about 10 miles. With rush hour traffic, it takes maybe 20-25 minutes, which isn’t bad.

But with all the snow and traffic, he had only moved about a mile or two in an hour. To give you an idea, here’s what a major street in our city looked like yesterday:

Apocalyptic looking picture from Glenwood Ave. in Raleigh. pic.twitter.com/fPw6VM3qnv — FOX46 Carolinas WJZY (@FOX46CAROLINAS) February 13, 2014

As the snow came down harder and harder, I got more panicked. The Internet was my friend and my foe.

On one hand, I used the Find Friends app to watch his icon on the map. As I refreshed and refreshed, I painfully watched him move (or not move) maybe one street address every 5-10 minutes. He was pretty much stuck, but at least I knew where he was.

On the other hand, I kept hearing online about people I know abandoning their cars and walking home. We’re talking MILES in the snow with probably the wrong kinds of shoes on since they were coming straight from work. That only made me worry more.

In the meantime, I was trying to simultaneously work and take care of the kids, but like a kid in love, all I could think about was him.

I cried. I paced the house. I maniacally checked my phone. It was all-consuming because I didn’t know when the snow would end, nor if the road conditions would be any better if he kept pressing on.

Would he spend nine hours in the car like people did in Atlanta? Would his car slip and get stuck? Would he be forced to walk for hours in the snow do get home?

After about four hours, he wasn’t even halfway home with no end in site to the traffic.

That is, if he turned the direction of our house. So after talking it out, he decided to go back to work, since traffic was just about dead going that way.

I knew it was right choice, but my heart sank knowing he’d be spending the night somewhere else. Especially since the weather wasn’t supposed to let up for another day or two. The kids were sad, but I assured them he’d be warm and safe so it was okay. He made it back to work with little trouble.

He had dinner with his boss, who lives next door to work, while I ate a somber dinner with the kids. During grace, my oldest asked to say a prayer for his dad and I saw him wipe his eyes. I gave him a reassuring hug and we finished dinner.

At this point, it seemed that all of the people I knew who were stuck earlier had made it home. Except Daniel. He decided it might be worth attempting to make it home now the roads were clearer. He has a Subaru, which is all wheel drive, so he didn’t have trouble earlier in the day. It was just the traffic and abandoned cars that were the barrier.

So… he made a second attempt.

As I watched his little icon on Find Friends, I immediately saw that this time would be different. In two minutes his icon leapt across the map. At a light, he texted that he was behind a snow plow and not slipping a bit with his car.

Ten minutes later, he had made it just about half way home. Twenty minutes later, he turned onto the main street by our neighborhood. Five minutes later, I saw his little icon on our street and I smiled like when he used to knock on my front door for our first dates.

He walked through the door and I wrapped my arms around him and just stood there, letting the side of my face just melt into his chest.

After 13 years of marriage, you just don’t really hug that much any more, ya know? In our normal day to day, coming home to work is usually met with a quick peck on the lips, not a long, drawn-out hug.

So a hug was just what we needed after a long day of uncertainty and snow. A perfect finish to a day when my husband consumed my mind all day, just like he did back in those beginning days of young love. Young love like a pristine blanket of fresh snow, before the footprints of routine and daily life leave their marks. A comforting reminder that love exists without a special day dedicated to displaying affection and buying gifts.

Take that Valentine’s. I don’t need roses, cheesy cards, or cheap teddy bears. I just needed snow.

The day before Christmas Eve, we were stuck inside all day. After a weekend of over 70 degree weather – in DECEMBER mind you – the rain started pouring and didn’t let up.

At all.

Big Roo had been up half the night with the fever but by the afternoon was back to his usual self. And so, we had to check one more thing off our Christmas to-do list: decorate the sugar cookies.

Before I had kids, I looked forward to craft projects, making messy art and squishing Play-Doh. But now with two boys I learned a few things:

• Play-Doh colors being squished together makes me cringe
• My kids don’t much like doing crafts (at least with me)
• Cleaning up the mess is a massive undertaking, even if the kids help

For someone who considers herself relatively creative, letting my kids freely create is sometimes a mess I’d rather not even get into.

Despite all of that, I was actually looking forward to decorating cookies with them. I bought three new types of sprinkles and piping bags with decorating tips (something I’ve never really bought before).

And boy was it messy. On the table, on the floor, on their clothes. Too much food coloring, too many sprinkles, icing overkill.

But you know what? I didn’t mind. I shed that “Play-Doh must not mix” mentality and let them be messy and create.

As I go into 2014, I want to remember this:

Let there be chaos in this house.

Let there be messes to clean up.

Let there be sprinkles to sweep and spills to mop.

Let there be icing under fingernails and sweet smudged faces.

Because life without all of that would be quite boring and quite… quiet.

And so I embrace it, bright pink frosting and all.

 

I haven’t blogged here in over a month.

Yet I still linger.

You see, I have this other blog. The one that has more traffic. The one that makes me money and let’s me share my marketing passion and expertise. I do love that blog.

But it’s not where I tell stories. You know, those life stories. Stories about big moments like vacations and birthdays. Stories about little moments that aren’t neatly tied in a soft velvet bow. Stories about my mama bear claws coming out or my big ugly cry after preschool graduation.

Sure I jot down a note or snap pics here and there… a funny thing Ethan said scribbled into my Moleskin or Noah’s captured grin frozen forever in a Sutro-filtered Instagram. But I’ve forgotten how to tell stories.

Stories without pinnable images and SEO. Stories without anchor text or affiliate links.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the challenge of all of that too. After all, I have a marketer’s blood.

But I just want a place where I can write without having to worry about those things. A place where I don’t care if my sidebars aren’t updated or that my design hasn’t ever changed.

This past weekend I attended the Type A Parent Conference in Atlanta. I listened to Gary Buchanan from Disney Parks talk about storytelling, a storytelling that trickles all the way down to the most minute details. During the We Still Blog awards, I listened to bloggers make us laugh and make us sob with their stories.

It dawned on me that storytelling is the reason I can’t bring myself to shut down this blog, despite my sporadic posting and outdated pages.

Storytelling is the reason I linger.

Because I’ll be honest, I’m not the best storyteller in a group of people. The introvert inside my extrovert creeps up and I usually tell a story with a little rambling and some “ums” thrown in. My mind goes faster than my mouth or my mouth goes faster than my brain. Either way, my stories out loud are often meh.

But when I write, my ums disappear with the click of the backspace and my ramblings become succinct with a little self-editing (well, most of the time). I type words that, when strung together one by one, tell the stories of my pretty ordinary, yet still pretty awesome life.

This place is my first blogging home. The place where I first hit publish just about four years ago. I may not post here often, but when I have a story to tell, I know I have a place to let the words fall.