a most beautiful story, for the sweetest boy

The holidays are a time when we do so many things, but above all, we celebrate. We celebrate the traditions of the season, the people around us, the gifts we give, the gifts we receive, and so much more.

As children, we eagerly await the chance to unwrap presents from Santa, hearts racing with joy at the possibility of receiving something we’ve wished for more than anything in the world. As adults, the feelings we have around the holidays change dramatically. The season may bring us anything from the frantic rush to finish year-end projects at work, to the pressure of finding the perfect gifts for loved ones, to the struggle of making things financially work. As kids, our perspective is narrow, focused on excitement and anticipation. But as adults, the holidays can evoke a complex mix of emotions—many of which are far from the carefree joy we remember.

Yet one thing remains universal: the power of gifts. Regardless of who we are or what we’re going through, we’ve all had gifts that stay with us this time of year. Whether it’s a toy, a memory of a grandparent, a story shared by the fire, or the joy of seeing a child grow, these moments become the gifts that shape us. And at the heart of all holiday traditions is the act of giving—offering something meaningful to those we love and, in return, receiving their love in ways that last a lifetime.

Milo was one of those gifts we will cherish forever.

Milo came to us in early December of 2017. His previous family, unable to care for him anymore, made the difficult decision to bring him to us and trust that we would find him a new home. It didn’t take more than six hours to realize that Milo had already found his forever home—with us.

That first night, Milo stood beside the bed, unsure of what to do. Erin invited him to jump up, and without hesitation, he leaped onto the bed, laid his head on her chest, and stared into her eyes. He stayed there in her arms, safe and content, as if he had always belonged. In that moment, we all knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Milo wasn’t just staying with us—he was already home.

That Christmas, I asked Erin’s dad to make a custom raised dog bowl holder for Milo. At the time, I thought our family was already perfect, but watching Erin and Milo together made it obvious that, without us knowing it, he made our family complete in every way.

Milo’s first year with us was one of patience and learning. He struggled with severe anxiety during car rides, wasn’t gentle when taking food, and had a knack for stealing donuts out of purses and running away. But one thing was certain—he was the sweetest, most loving boy who just wanted to give love and be loved in return. Despite the challenges, Milo quickly became an integral part of our family. Erin would often find him snuggling with me on the couch, even after I’d jokingly complain about his antics. To try and make light of incredibly frustrating situations, I'd even say at times "I don't even like Milo", but Erin and I both knew that was far from the truth.

Within a year, Milo had transformed. He trained so well that he passed his therapy dog exam with near perfection. The only point deducted was for a move that would become his signature—lying down to expose his belly while reaching his paw up to hold the tester’s hand. This gentle, loving gesture wasn’t just a trick; it was Milo’s way of connecting.

Milo’s ability to connect with people was nothing short of extraordinary. From the moment he entered our lives, it became clear that his greatest gift wasn’t just his love for us, but his uncanny ability to share that love with everyone he met.

One of the most remarkable examples of this was during his therapy visits to nursing homes, where he touched countless lives in ways that were both profound and unforgettable. 

I’ll never forget one specific visit. We had been told about a resident who had been struggling for days. She hadn’t let anyone into her room, refused to eat, and was deeply withdrawn. The staff warned us that Milo’s visit might not be welcomed, but with permission, we decided to try anyway. As we approached her door, Milo gently poked his head around the corner, his bright eyes and warm smile peeking in.

What happened next was pure magic. The resident, who had been unresponsive and combative to everyone for a few days, immediately softened at the sight of Milo. She invited him in without hesitation. Milo, sensing her fragility, approached her with the utmost care. He nudged his head under her hand, encouraging her to pet him. Then came his signature move: he slowly slid down to the floor, gazing up at her with those soulful eyes, and lifted his paw into her hand.

The two of them stayed like that for what felt like hours, communicating in a way that words could never capture. She didn’t speak to me, nor did she need to. Milo was there for her in a way that no one else could be. As their hands clasped, it was as if Milo was saying, “I see you. I’m here for you.”

When it was time to leave, Milo stood up and gently nudged her one last time. As we turned to go, she looked at him and said, “Thank you, Milo.” Later, the staff told me that her behavior had completely shifted after our visit. She began allowing people into her room, eating her meals, and interacting with others again.

In November of 2024, we received the devastating news of Milo’s cancer diagnosis. It hit us hard, as it would anyone. The thought of losing Milo, who had been the cornerstone of our family’s love and joy, was unbearable. But we were determined to make his remaining days as full of life, love, and comfort as possible.

For me, the best way to cope was to take action. I dove into research, exploring every possible option to improve his quality of life. Cooking became a daily ritual—every meal prepared with love and care. Friends generously donated fresh venison, which Milo absolutely adored. Seeing his excitement for every meal, even as his body weakened, became one of the most precious parts of our routine. Those moments in the kitchen, preparing something that nourished him and brought him joy, will forever remain some of my most cherished and final memories.

Even in his final weeks, Milo never stopped being himself. He continued to find joy in the simplest things—snuggling on the couch, being close to Erin, and soaking up every bit of love we could give him. As his strength waned and he could no longer jump onto the bed, he spent more time with us in the dining and living room. True to his nature, Milo never missed an opportunity to be close.

One thing unique about my bond with Milo was how he would snuggle with me. He wouldn’t just lie beside me; he would lay directly on top of me, his torso aligned with mine, his paws resting on my chest, and his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath. This was his way of saying, “I need you, and I’m here for you too.” As I rubbed his ears or face, he would slowly drift off to sleep, sliding down to my side and resting his head on my shoulder. Even now, I can feel his warmth, hear his gentle breathing, and remember the way he would whimper softly in his dreams, likely chasing some happy memory in his mind.

In those quiet moments, it often felt like Milo was holding me as much as I was holding him. It was as though he was telling me, “It’s going to be okay. When this journey ends, it will be peaceful. I’ll be okay, and so will you.”

As the days grew shorter and Milo’s strength faded, the bond between him and Erin grew even deeper. Milo had always been the center of her universe, and she was the center of his. He never left her side, always there to offer comfort, even when it was he who needed it most.

On Milo’s final day, we knew the time had come to say goodbye. I carried him to the car, gently placing him on his favorite dog bed and wrapping him in his favorite blanket. Erin sat beside him in the backseat, holding him close and whispering how much she loved him. Mia sat in the passenger seat, quietly watching over her brother, reluctant to leave his side.

As we drove to the vet, we passed Adam’s park—a place that had been part of so many of our family’s happiest memories. The number of times we visited this park as a family are too numerous to count. In Milo’s final months, we would always use the butterfly garden as a landmark that we wanted to walk to. And as he got weaker and weaker, we would park our car closer and closer, always making sure that we could reach our milestone. In many ways, it is poetic that we decided to pull over, because what we didn’t know was that we were approaching Milo’s final moments with us. As we pulled over, those loving eyes faded more and more. 

As we got to our parking spot I jumped out and got in the back seat, putting my hand on his heart and feeling it beat for the final time. 

At approximately 2pm on December 21, 2024, Milo passed peacefully, surrounded by the family who loved him most. Erin held him in her arms, just as she had on the first night he came into our lives. The symmetry of that moment was both heartbreaking and beautiful—he had come into our lives in her arms, and he left this world in the same way.

Someone who means a great deal to me recently said (in the wake of Milo’s passing),

"Having a beautiful death is just as important as living a beautiful life." 

And Milo’s final moments were exactly that—filled with love, peace, and the presence of his family.

Though the immense heartache cannot be adequately summed up with words, we are comforted by the knowledge that Milo’s life was one of love, purpose, and joy.

Erin has always loved the musical Hamilton, and during the pandemic, it became a staple in our lives, from watching the show on Disney+ endless times as a family, to listening to the soundtrack during car rides to and from family dinners on weekends. One song in particular, at the very end of the musical, titled "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story," holds a meaning that resonates deeply with us now. It reminds us of the things we cannot control—who lives, who dies, and the inevitable moments of loss that life brings. Milo’s diagnosis was one of those moments that reminded us how much of life is beyond our control. But what we can control is how we choose to carry forward the love, the joy, and the memories of those who leave us.

Work has already begun on creating several things that will honor Milo forever and have a positive impact on as many dogs and people as possible, mirroring the way Milo lived his life.

To bring this beautiful chapter to a close, it seems only fitting to end it one way.

Milo, I never really liked you… 

I loved you with all my heart, and always will.