I was just editing photos from a recent apple farm visit when my throat started burning and tears came rushing down my cheeks. And then it hit me: September 29th was the last good day with Miku. I still have a hard time looking at those photos, so instead I’ll share some others that aren’t as bittersweet.

One year without her.

On September 29th of last year, we drove to a farm with an apple orchard and pumpkin patch with my sister and Miku, and she spent the whole ride sitting on my sister’s lap so she could get a good view while her furry mane blew in the wind. We had her in her stroller for the journey to the orchards and let her out to roll in the grass and sniff the apple scents that lingered in the breeze — one of her cutest signature moves — but she kept wanting to run and play and I was scared she would hurt herself.

She had the spirit of a young pup but the heart of a senior. And though her heart condition was on the milder side and her regular echocardiogramss showed her meds were doing their job, I hovered over her to make sure she never put too much strain on it. Our cardiologist said: “Separately, her conditions are not as scary. But when you put them all together…” Pulmonary hypertension was the most frightening. And whenever Bobby would get frustrated by my anxiety over her excitement, I would remind him that “Even good stress is stress! I don’t want her to make herself sick.” 

I hated myself for having to say those things.

She just wanted to be a dog and I struggled with where to draw the line. I’ve joked about my vet being my unofficial therapist; he would occasionally have to remind me that I needed to be able to tell the difference between treating my dog for her own well being, and treating her for mine. When she got the pulmonary hypertension diagnosis, my gut instinct was to never leave the house again — to keep her life as stress free and chill as possible so I could maximize our time together.

But both our primary and her cardiologist told me not to go to such an extreme, to let her enjoy the life she had left instead of prolonging it for my own benefit, at the cost of her own happiness. Over the last year of her life, I found a happy medium between caution and letting her be the adventurer she always was.

In some ways, I was hovering like always and flying my sister up to help babysit Miku when I went to Japan. Because I was afraid Bobby would be too busy to keep her sufficient company every day. But I didn’t cancel my trip, and that was progress. I photoshopped her into one of my photos from Japan. Making her into a giant Miku, Godzilla-esque in her stature and wearing a kimono I bought in Kyoto.

In short, I learned how to live with caution while still giving her the life she deserved and trying not to completely halt ours.

We bought her a stroller so she could still go for the long walks she loved without tiring herself out. We stopped flying and drove everywhere. And we never went on any trips together if it was too far for her to join. Because I wanted one of us to be with her at all times. We let her roll around and do flips in the snow, even though I held my breath every time.

I have this one video that is the perfect indicator of how difficult it could be to draw the line:

Miku is digging and rolling around in the dirt, having the time of her life. My gut instinct was to stop her. Because I didn’t want her to put too much strain on her heart and lungs. But she was in pure bliss, so I let her. I watched with tears in my eyes and the biggest smile, ever. And then we gave her a bath and she was pleased with herself all day.

How could I take those moments away from her?

Just a few days after her cardiology checkup, we had a beautiful afternoon at the farm. Not long after picking a small bag of apples and choosing a few pumpkins, we cut our visit short. Even with the stroller, she seemed tired very quickly. We went home and she immediately settled into her bed after eating her dinner. I counted her breaths as she slept, like I always did. Her respiratory rate was a little higher than usual but I was afraid that taking her to the hospital would only make it worse from the stress, so I let her sleep. I woke up multiple times to see if it had slowed. I still wake up in the night and grab my phone to shine a light on her bed and check her breathing.

That’s how much of a routine it was for me.

The next morning, she woke me up to go outside. She didn’t want her breakfast, which was completely unlike her, so we rushed her to the emergency hospital, not knowing she wouldn’t be coming home. I had to say my goodbyes while she was in an oxygen chamber. I held her and kept thinking, “I don’t want to go on without you.” But I didn’t want her to bear the weight of my own selfish worries, so I told her, “It’s okay. I’m right here. I love you so much, my baby. I only love my babygirl. You are the best good girl.” That’s what I told her every day: “I only love my Miku. I only love my babygirl.”

Of course, I have many loved ones. But the truth is, I loved her the most. She was my purest love. There were never any fights, any hurtful words exchanged.

Every day with her was a gift.

I know now that it was too much pressure to put on such a tiny being, to wrap up all my happiness in her, to rely on her for my own emotional stability for so long. I tried to overcompensate for my own dependence by giving her the best possible life, but I’ve spent the past year asking everyone, “Did I do enough? Did I give her enough attention? Do you think she knew how much I loved her? Was she happy?”

And no matter how many, “Yes, you did. Yes, she did. Yes, she was” answers I got, I continuously beat myself up and thought I could’ve done more, I could’ve been better. If we didn’t go to that farm, if I would’ve stopped her from trotting behind me that one row, if I wouldn’t have gotten on Bobby’s shoulders (which made her bark because she thought it was play time), if I would’ve taken her to the hospital the moment we got home, maybe she’d still be here.

In those first few months, I would literally beat myself up while I slept, and wake up covered in bruises and scratches.

I couldn’t eat for weeks, was making myself. The what ifs and self doubt were making my grief unbearable and I couldn’t listen to anyone’s reasoning. The one person who was able to get through to me on some level was my vet. When Miku passed away, he called me and talked to me for almost an hour. He stopped me when I got into the what ifs and said, “What would Miku have wanted: to go to the farm, which she loved, or to sit at home and never have another adventure again? What kind of life would that have been for *her*?”

Truthfully, I still struggle with it. But when I think back to that one perfect afternoon, Miku rolling in the fallen apples, her little nose sniffing at the fragrant trees, with 3 of her favorite human beings by her side, I think: maybe he was right. Maybe that was the only life she could’ve beared to live. She went everywhere with us. She went kayaking and paddle boarding, frolicked on the beach and in the mountains, had her very own doggy vacay planned just for her.

How could I have just taken it all away and kept her locked inside?

Even when at home, she would jump and run around and want to play all the time, and I hated that I had to stop her. She didn’t understand I was trying to protect her. I had such a hard time knowing when to just let her be a dog, and when to hover over her like a helicopter mom. 

In response to one of my many, “Do you think she was happy? Was I good enough to her?” questions, my little sister Tessa said to me, “All Miku wanted was to be next to you. That’s all it took to make her happy.” And that’s mutually true of both of us — there wasn’t a moment with her where I didn’t get emotional about how much I loved her. It got stronger with time — I loved her more and more every day. My grandma would often say in all sincerity, “You two are soulmates.” I always knew when something was wrong with her. She always knew when I was feeling down. We were best friends for 15 and a half glorious years and I know how lucky I am to have had her.

All I ever wanted was to be right next to her. Everything else was just a bonus. I love you forever, Miku.