Listen to Marges story below:
I always knew the day would come, but that didn’t make it any easier. Sadie had been my constant companion for 12 years, through the quiet mornings and restless nights, the breakdowns and breakthroughs. She was there when I first started this journey, when I didn’t know how I’d make it work. And now, as her steps slowed and her breaths grew heavier, I knew her journey was coming to an end.
We were camped by a pristine lake in Colorado, one of Sadie’s favorite places. The water was so clear you could see the rocks at the bottom, and the air smelled like pine needles and earth after rain. It was the kind of place that felt alive, where time seemed to stretch and slow.
Sadie had always loved it here. She’d trot along the shore, chasing sticks and splashing in the shallows. But now, she mostly slept in the shade, her once-bright eyes clouded with age.
I spent those days focused entirely on her. We took slow, careful walks along the shore, stopping often so she could rest. I cooked her favorite meals—scrambled eggs and little bits of chicken—and fed her by hand when she was too tired to eat on her own.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the mountains, painting the lake in gold and pink, I sat beside her, stroking her soft fur. “You’ve been the best co-pilot, Sadie,” I whispered. “Thank you for sticking with me.”
Her tail thumped softly against the ground, and I smiled through the tears.
The next morning, I made a decision. I’d planned this trip as a sort of farewell, but it didn’t feel complete. Sadie deserved something special—something that would honor the years we’d shared.
I found a quiet spot near the lake, where the trees formed a gentle arch over the shore. I dug a small hole and planted a wildflower seed mix I’d been carrying with me. It seemed fitting, something that would grow and flourish long after Sadie was gone.
Later that day, I gathered my closest nomad friends, the ones who’d camped with me over the years and knew how much Sadie meant to me. We sat in a circle around the fire, sharing stories about her—like the time she barked at a bear in Oregon and scared it off, or how she once tried to steal a sandwich from a stranger’s picnic.
When it was time to say goodbye, I held her close, whispering every ounce of love and gratitude I had in my heart. And when she passed, it was peaceful, like she’d simply drifted into a dream.
The days that followed were heavy, the kind of quiet that presses down on you. But I found comfort in small things—the ripples on the lake, the way the wildflowers caught the light, the memories of Sadie’s joy in this place.
Before I left, I scattered some of her ashes near the wildflowers, letting her become a part of the place she loved so much. I took one last look at the lake, the sun glinting off its surface, and whispered, “Goodbye, girl. Thank you for everything.”
The road felt different without her, quieter and lonelier, but also filled with echoes of her spirit. Every stick on the ground reminded me of her playful bark, every cool breeze of her wagging tail.
Sadie taught me so much about loyalty, joy, and resilience. And even though she’s gone, she’s still with me—guiding me with her quiet strength, her unconditional love, and the countless memories we made together.
