It all began with one extraordinary dog. Her name was Nami. I found her completely by chance — or maybe it wasn’t chance at all.
 

One day, I saw a Facebook post from a woman I had never met. She had rescued a beautiful pregnant German Shepherd and Husky mix named Keema from the Milo Foundation here in California.
 

The very next day, Keema gave birth to seven puppies. Her human mom Renee began posting little photos of them on Facebook. Tiny faces, little paws, sleepy puppies piled on top of one another. And somehow, the moment I saw them, something inside me said, I think my soulmate is there.

Three years earlier, I had lost my beloved dog, Mackie Boy. I loved him deeply, and after losing him I wasn't ready to simply find another dog. I waited. I knew that someday another dog would come into my life, but I wanted it to happen naturally. I wanted to feel that connection.
 

So I went to meet the seven puppies. And there she was. Tiny tiny Nami. Out of all of them, she felt like my soulmate. She had the most beautiful blue eyes. They reminded me of the ocean, so I named her Nami, which means “wave” in Japanese.

I had no idea then just how perfectly that name would fit her.
 

Nami came into my life like a wave — full of energy, joy, movement and adventure.

She loved being outside. Hiking trails, beaches, mountains, forests, sunshine, wind — nature was her playground. Adventure seemed to be her daily motto. She didn't need anything complicated to be happy. A trail to explore. A smell she hadn't smelled before. The ocean breeze. A new path. Being together.
 

Nami taught me something I think humans often forget: how to enjoy the day we are actually living. She didn't worry about yesterday. She didn't make plans for next year. If the sun was shining, she enjoyed the sun. If there was a trail, she wanted to see where it went. If I was sitting beside her, that was enough.

For seven years, she became part of the rhythm of my life. We walked together. Explored together. Rested together. Watched the world together. She even came to work with me in my office. 

She was not just my dog. She was my family, my adventure partner, my teacher, and in so many ways, my soulmate.

And then, just a couple of weeks before her seventh birthday, everything changed.

Nami had always seemed incredibly healthy and active. One summer day, she began breathing heavily. Because she was part Husky and never loved the heat, at first I thought the summer weather might be bothering her. But something told me to take her to the veterinarian.
 

That visit became an emergency visit. And suddenly I learned that my happy, energetic girl had a large tumor near her heart. Fluid was building around her lungs and she was struggling to breathe. The tumor could not be operated on. There was no long goodbye. I had to make the decision I never imagined I would have to make that day — to let her go rather than allow her to suffer.

The silence afterward was enormous.
 

For a long time, I couldn't understand how a dog who had been running, hiking and enjoying life could suddenly be gone. I replayed everything. How did I not know?

How could I have missed something so serious?

One day I told my son how guilty I felt. He said something to me that I have never forgotten. He reminded me that Nami had seven wonderful years. She ran. She explored. She went on adventures. She had fun. And he said that if I had known about the tumor earlier, I probably would have spent her final months worrying. I might have stopped some of our walks and adventures because I was afraid something would happen to her. Instead, Nami got to be Nami almost until the very end. That changed something in me. The ending was heartbreaking. But her life was not a tragedy.

Her life was beautiful.
 

For a while after she passed,  grief was louder than everything else. Eventually, though, something softer began to appear alongside it. Gratitude.

Gratitude that somehow, out of a Facebook post from a woman I had never met, this little blue-eyed puppy found her way to me.

Gratitude for seven years of walks, adventures, laughter and ordinary days that I now understand were anything but ordinary. And slowly I began to understand something else.

The relationship didn't disappear when Nami's physical life ended.

Love doesn't work that way. It changes. I couldn't walk beside her in the same way anymore, but I still carried her with me. Sometimes on a trail. Sometimes when I saw the ocean. Sometimes in a photograph.Sometimes in a memory that suddenly made me laugh. And sometimes simply in the quiet feeling that she was still part of me.

That is where Still Walking With You began.
 

I wanted to create a gentle place for people who understand this kind of love — and this kind of loss.
 

A place where we don't have to be told to “move on.” A place where we can remember our animals with tears, laughter, stories, photographs, little rituals, cards, walks and whatever helps us feel connected.
 

Because I don't believe healing means leaving them behind.

I think we learn to walk differently. Nami's paws are no longer beside mine on the trail. But in so many ways, she is still walking with me.

And perhaps the animals you have loved are still walking with you, too.

Still walking with you....