Dear Murphy,

I keep catching myself looking for you — in the quiet corners of the house, in the familiar shapes of blankets, in the soft sounds that used to mean you were near. The house is so still now, Murphy. The laughter left when you did. Sometimes I think I hear you — the shake of your ears, the soft little whine you made when you wanted attention, the echo of your bark when Luna barks. My mind slips into old patterns, those “autopilot” moments built from years of loving you. I step out of the shower and expect to see you lying there like you always did and walking away when I start spraying hair spray. I walk into the bedroom and think you’re curled up on your dog bed, but it’s only your white fluffy blanket pretending to be you. Maybe it’s like phantom pain — but for the heart. Maybe it’s just love refusing to disappear.

You were never “just a dog.” From the moment we met you, we knew you were something extraordinary. You were this tiny little bundle — still wrapped in your soft white baby fur, the runt of the litter, small enough to fit in my hands. But even then, your spirit was bigger than your body.

I’ll never forget the moment we knew you were ours: when you grabbed Sky’s leash in your little puppy mouth and proudly trotted away with her still attached, as if you’d decided right then that you were part of our family. We looked at each other and knew — this was the dog we would love forever.

The first night at home I had put you on my pillow on a blanket behind me and you were still so scared that you accidentally pooped on your blanket and didn’t move a bit, you were just laying there when I woke up in the middle of the night checking on you. I carried you to the kitchen sink with the blanket and poop and everything and you just let me bath you, rubbed you dry and carried you back to our bed like nothing had happen.

You became the heartbeat of this home, the steady presence who followed me from room to room as if the world only made sense when we were close. Even now, I catch myself expecting to hear you — the hopeful trot to the kitchen whenever a cabinet opened or a chip bag crinkled. Your sister, Luna also knows something is up, she is distant and quiet and is doing her own thing, smelling at your blanket, I think she is looking for you and grieving in her own way. Once in a while you and Luna would get into a tiff, but I think you and Luna had a very close sibling bond, even though you were adopted siblings, you two were almost inseparable, playing tug a way, competing in who could catch ball faster and enjoyed barking and running together after anything that was moving (or knocking on the door :-)).

Every morning when you got up, you decided it was a good day. Just like that. No hesitation, no conditions. You greeted the world with optimism, jumped onto the bed, licked my face fiercely, and somehow that made ordinary days’ worth noticing.

And oh, the kitchen. Ice cream and whipped cream were your joy, well all human food was your joy but those two especially. The second you heard the top twist off the can, you’d come running like you’d been summoned. You always got the last piece of the waffle cone from my Drumstick — standing on the couch, staring at me with that “I’m waiting” look that made me laugh every time. And of course you and Luna took turns licking out the dessert bowls, and both of you “helped” me load the dishwasher. You started that as a tiny puppy — lying right on the dishwasher door, licking every plate like it was your job.

And then there was the “cheese tax.” I shared more of my food with you than with any human. You always waited patiently, staring at me with those soft, hopeful eyes, collecting your little tax with such quiet confidence. Sometimes you were quite pushy — certain that a small piece belonged to you. And it did.

And the BarkBox… oh, Murphy. I ordered those for months, maybe years. The toys never stood a chance — two days was a record. Total destruction every time. But you were so excited, so proud, so full of joy when you opened them that I didn’t care. Even now, years later, I still find one of those poor unrecognizable toys — shredded, flattened, obliterated by you and Luna — and it makes me smile through the ache.

Do you remember that tire of yours? You were spinning with crazy speed in circles, and the tire was constantly hitting your body, you must have had bruises on your entire body but for some strange reason did you love to entertain yourself that way and you really really wanted us to watch you twirl around with your tire.

I am still looking for your — for your presence, all that crazy shedding hair of yours and your “whining/your voice” for attention, I miss it a LOT. Things don’t feel quite right without you. You were part of every corner of my life, and losing you leaves a space nothing else can fill. You were my doggy soulmate, truly.

You were joy in motion. You were comfort and companionship woven into one small, perfect creature. From the moment we brought you home — a tiny, curious six‑week‑old Red Heeler — you became my shadow, my sidekick, my constant.

When I was still working, even though I worked from home, my mind was often occupied. You were the one who reminded me to pause. You’d come over, make that little sound, and insist that belly rubs were more important than emails. And these last eight months, after I retired, most of my day became about you and Luna — slow mornings, road trips, extra rounds of ball, lots and lots of belly and chest rubs for you and time that finally felt like it belonged to us. I loved that we could sleep in, spend more time outside, and just be together without my attention being pulled away.

We lived a whole life together. Long Beach summers, year after year, running and playing in the sand, you chasing the ball with that wild afterburner speed that made everyone laugh. But it wasn’t just Long Beach. You and Luna traveled everywhere with us — Lake Chelan, Leavenworth, Portland, Roslyn, Fishlake, Lake Wenatchee, and that unforgettable Lake Roosevelt houseboat vacation. You were part of every adventure, every landscape, every memory.

And oh, the way you greeted me when you were younger, and I came home from trips. You were so overwhelmed with joy that you’d pee all over yourself — and all over me. Anyone else might have thought it was gross, but to me it was the purest expression of love. How can a dog be so happy? Only you, my sweet boy.

You loved the water more than anything. All those years of boating, swimming in the lake, launching yourself after sticks with total conviction — my little “stickman.” Earlier, when we lived in Redmond, you and Luna came with me on every walk or jog around the lake. And when I got that scooter, we really got to zoom — you running beside me, burning off that Heeler energy with such happiness. During COVID, we walked the neighborhood every day, sometimes even with Jack the cat trotting along. We were known for that — the woman walking two Heelers and a cat. And in the hot summers, we’d head to the Snohomish River in the afternoons so you could swim. You loved that river.

And here, at the Columbia River, some of my most cherished memories are our afternoon naps in the swing. I’d lie down, and you’d climb right on top of me, settling your weight against my chest, both of us drifting off together. Those moments felt like the world had stopped just for us.

You also loved riding in the side‑by‑side — the wind in your face, your body pressed close to mine as we rode to the mailbox or up to the lookout point. You always smiled on those rides. Always.

And in the winter months, when it was too cold to go outside, we played our own special version of fetch in the living room. I’d throw the ball across the table, you’d catch it, and then roll it back to me over the tabletop. We drove your dad crazy with that game — the thumps, the rolling, the endless back‑and‑forth — but it was ours, and you loved it.

Life wasn’t always easy for you. You threw out your back twice, and IVDD tried to take more from you than you ever let it. The first time, you bounced back like nothing had happened. The second time, when paralysis hit, you fought your way back to standing, to walking, to being part of everything again — even if one leg never fully returned. You had a limp, yes, but you never lost your spark. You still wanted to play ball, still wanted to be wherever I was, still wanted to tug on toys with Luna like nothing had changed. You endured weekly acupuncture like a champ — sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn’t, but you always tried. Your spirit was bigger than your body’s limits.

You walked with me to the barn every morning and evening to feed the horses. Just these last couple of months, you started missing some of those walks. I thought maybe you’d overdone it with your little wobble walk, or your muscles were tight and needed rest. Now I know it was the bone cancer beginning, and you were just too brave to let on. But you never let go of your smile, you had an entire vocabulary of smiles — playful and mischievous, loving and content, proud, curious, sleepy, greeting-you-at-the-door happy, even that gentle reassuring one and the funny goofy one – I loved them all!

Evenings were ours. Cuddling on the couch, your warm body pressed against me, your head tucked just so. And those special nights when I’d take you and Luna upstairs and let you sleep in the bed — the morning routine of kisses, excitement, rolling around, playing under the blankets. Those mornings are stitched into my heart forever.

We traveled so many roads together — lakes, mountains, quiet places where you could sniff the world, feel the wind and swim in the water. You were gentle with the horses, patient with the cats, curious about everything. All our friends and visitors loved you, you were everybody’s darling. You smiled — truly smiled — when we played Frisbee in your younger years, and later when the ball became your favorite thing.

And the kisses… my god, the kisses. I gave you a thousand, and you gave me a million back.

You were handsome, loving, loyal, curious, funny, gentle, brave. You were my shadow, my companion, my comfort, my joy. You were the bestest of dogs — and I’ve loved many — but you were my everything.

Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for every walk, every cuddle, every road trip, every lake swim, every morning kiss, every little whine for attention, every moment you made brighter just by being in it. Thank you for fighting so hard to stay with me for as long as you could.

Until it’s my time to cross over, I hope you run free — no pain, no limits, just wind, water, sand, joy and lots of balls, frisbees, ice cream and big fat steaks for you. Look for Zeek, Sky, and Kody. Play with them, stay with them, and when your dad and I are ready to cross over too, I hope all of you will come running to greet us.

I love you very much Murphy, you will always be in my heart!

Your mum.