Welcome to another illustrated edition of Haley Wrote This! You can support this newsletter by clicking the ♡ button at the bottom and sharing this publication with your friends. Paid subscriptions keep it alive entirely. Thank you! We lost my dog Bowie last Wednesday. He would’ve been sixteen this year, the same age I was when he joined our family. That I will never again walk him to the park or bury my face in the soft fur of his neck feels impossible, like a joke without a punchline.
I’ve found the best way to approach grief is to write my way through it, to preserve my loved ones in words like a fly cast in amber. I know there’s no keeping Bowie here, not literally. But what follows is an attempt to make permanent the things I will miss most about him, the parts of him that have become part of me.  And since writing is never enough, I drew him, too As far as Goldendoodles go, Bowie fit the mold: blond curls, standard build, wet brown eyes, a big rubbery nose. He loved ice cream and swimming. He feared the dishwasher and thunderstorms. We gave him nicknames that made sense until they didn’t: Bo-Bo, Bobs, Bo-Ba-Lob, Mr. Bo, Bobalina, Bobini, The Velveteen Bobo, and, for some reason, Theo.  Though his genetic makeup suggested retrieval skills, he was the least coordinated dog I’d ever encountered. He bounced with athletic promise at the sight of a ball, only to have it sail right past his open jaw. But he was flexible, a canine contortionist. Sometimes his front legs splayed out in opposing right angles, mimicking the shape of a football goal post. Other times he became a corkscrew, his chin resting on the floor while his back paws hovered in the air.  From left to right: A relic from my 2010 flip phone, proof of Bowie's Jell-o bones, and the strangest nap position I've ever seen Bowie could open doors and outsmart even the most complicated of my mother’s dog-proofing efforts. Just weeks ago, he found a way to the forbidden second floor by moving a fifteen pound weight (we still don’t know how exactly) and squeezing himself past the gate affixed to the staircase. These efforts were often in pursuit of personal space, as Bowie loved solitude in closets and corners and even the crawl space under the house. I once caught him hiding behind a tree far too small to conceal his furry frame. The photo makes me laugh to this day.
Bowie was two when we got Henry (a fuzzball of an albino mutt) and four when Ziggy (the Dalmatian) joined the pack. They became a chaotic trio, tangling their leashes on daily walks and harmonizing their barks when neighbors passed our house.  At night, they didn’t cuddle so much as fit their bodies together like blocks in a game of Tetris.  My brother Graham trained Bowie to be a therapy dog, an irony given Bowie’s anxiety. But Bowie was also gentle and empathetic and therefore a natural at comforting people. When I cried after my grandfather’s death, he rested his head on my chest. When Graham brought him to preschools and libraries, Bowie sat patiently while children weighed him down in hugs. And when Henry had a seizure in the middle of the night, Bowie nudged the dog-sitter with his snout until she woke up. The vet believes this act saved Henry’s life.
Bowie wasn’t eating much in his final weeks, but managed to lap down two scoops of vanilla ice cream on his last day. The vet arrived shortly after. My parents rubbed his back and reminded him that he was a good boy, the best boy. They were with him until the very end. I wish there was a way to tell Henry and Ziggy why their oldest brother isn’t hiding in the closet or sniffing around the backyard anymore. I wish I could hug him one more time. I wish there was a world in which we got more time with our pets. But god am I glad I overlapped with Bowie at all, that he was my dog and brother and friend.
PS: I’d be remiss not to share one of Bowie’s most iconic Halloween costumes of all time:
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ponedjeljak, 23. ožujka 2026.
#143: Pet grief
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