State of the pack

On Halloween, we lost Mia — one of our Shepherds, one of our constants, and one of the pieces of our life that doesn’t get replaced.

Her battle with breast cancer began in April. Two surgeries, sleepless nights, and a fight most dogs would never endure. But Shepherds aren’t “most dogs.” They stay as long as they can, because they don’t live for themselves — they live for their pack. And Mia stayed for us.

Cheryl is devastated. Mia was her girl. They had their own world together, and when the diagnosis came, we looked at each other and said, “Here we go again.” But we did what we’ve always done for nearly 30 years — we leaned on each other and kept going. We don’t crumble. We carry forward.

The house felt like it shifted the moment Mia left. Anyone who’s shared their lives with Shepherds knows exactly what I mean.

Tanner feels it too.
He’s close to 16 now and has lived through three Shepherds — Genessa, Tia, and Mia. He grieved in the quiet ways only old souls do. At first, he hesitated at the door for walks. He’d look to see who was coming with us. He barked his “Sammy the Seal” bark when the routine felt off. Slowly, he’s finding his feet again — even pestering us for his morning “coffee,” which really just means finishing whatever we left behind.

And then there’s Sassy.
Our quiet observer.
She’s been here through every era of this pack. She feels the loss too — lingering in places Mia used to rest, curling a little closer at night. Her grief is softer, but no less real.

Now we’re faced with the question everyone eventually asks:
“Will there be another Shepherd?”

The truth is, we’ve always let the pack tell us when the time is right. And Tanner will guide that decision. He’s the heart of this house. He was once labelled “feral” — a dog no one had time for — and yet he’s the one holding all of us steady now.

And something rescuing a long-haired Shepherd always does:
It enlarges your heart.
They come into your life and expand your world. And when they leave, you’re somehow still bigger than before — even if it hurts.

So this is where we stand:

A pack is still adjusting.
A house quieter than it should be.
Healing is happening in small, honest ways.
Moving forward without rushing what needs to be felt.

We don’t quit.
We don’t collapse.
We don’t pretend it didn’t break us a little.

We do what we’ve always done:

If life burns the bridge… swim the damn river.
— Jeffrey