Growth through Grief and Gratitude.

One year ago tonight, under a storm-darkened sky, I wheeled my trash bins to the road. My sixteen-year-old spaniel, Maggie, followed only to the edge of the yard. She lifted her greying muzzle to the air, sensing the storm. When I returned, she was gone.

Panic overtook me. Her vision and hearing had been fading, and now the storm swallowed my calls. I searched the fields, the roads, the shadows—high beams cutting through rain. Neighbors helped. My partner joined. For days, we scoured the countryside, posted signs, left food and clothing outside. But Maggie never came home.

She was more than a pet. For sixteen years, she had been my truest companion, weaving my past into my present. The thought of her lost and alone tore at me. The storm outside matched the one within.

In my grief, a friend who had lost his cat said the only comfort he found was gratitude—for the time shared. That changed me. I began to see my pain not only as loss, but as proof of love. Maggie’s absence hurt so deeply because her presence had been so full.

Now, a year later, I know acceptance is not forgetting. It is honoring. Maggie’s spirit remains with me—indomitable, eternal, unbroken by storm. The love we shared lights my way through grief, reminding me to choose compassion and presence while I can.

For my beloved, Maggie, I dedicate this tune to US: Never Let Me Go (from Todd Strait’s Fun House Project with Bill Mays.