Today marks another anniversary.

Four years ago today, while I was fighting through one of the hardest periods of my life physically, I lost my Micky.

Earlier that same year, I had said goodbye to Rusty, my little dachshund who had been with me for nearly fourteen years. This week also reminds me of Luna, the black cat I lost several years ago.

It seems strange sometimes how we measure our lives. We remember graduations, anniversaries, birthdays, and milestones. But pet owners often remember the years by who was waiting at the door when we came home.

Every one of them has their own story.

Rusty and his sister Penny came into my life in 2008 when they were about four months old. We quickly nicknamed them the Houdini Weenies because they could escape from just about anywhere. In fact, the very night I moved into my house, they slipped out and ended up in doggie jail.

When I went to bail them out, the employee looked at me with a perfectly straight face and informed me that my two dachshunds had somehow managed to kill a pigeon inside their kennel.

Apparently, they hadn’t just been arrested—they had committed murder in doggie jail.

I always joked that they were hardened criminals.

Before that, they’d already developed another unusual hobby: hunting skunks around the old house. More than once I wondered how two little dachshunds thought they were eighty-pound hunting dogs.

In 2018, Rusty and Penny escaped again. Rusty eventually wandered back home.

Penny never did.

Even now, I still wonder what happened to her.

Luna entered my life because she chose us.

She followed my son Tony home one day. Since he couldn’t keep her at his dad’s house, she came to live with me in 2013.

She was one of the friendliest cats I’ve ever owned. She loved people, especially me.

She also had one very peculiar habit.

She liked to sleep…

…on my face.

It wasn’t always the most comfortable arrangement, but it was impossible to stay annoyed with her for long. She simply wanted to be as close as she could.

Then there was Micky.

My sweet Mick.

I adopted him from a rescue in 2015. He was painfully thin, weighing only about forty pounds. Over the next few years, he filled out into the magnificent German Shepherd he was always meant to be. At his healthiest, he probably weighed somewhere around 120 pounds.

He never seemed to realize just how big he was.

One of my favorite memories happened not long after I adopted him. He was crate-trained, so every night he slept in his crate.

One night, something outside caught his attention.

The next thing I knew, he’d somehow broken out of the crate and was standing in the doorway to my bedroom, staring out into the house and growling.

There was nothing there.

Or at least nothing I could see.

But in that moment, he wasn’t scared.

He was protecting me.

I never put him in the crate at night again.

Instead, he claimed his favorite spots—the footstool during the day and, whenever he thought he could get away with it, my bed at night. He’d try to sneak up beside me as quietly as a 120-pound German Shepherd possibly could, convinced I wouldn’t notice.

His hips eventually betrayed him.

He was only nine years old when I had to let him go.

I still miss him.

Today, life is a little quieter.

Tyler came into our family when Len and I moved in together in 2018. He’s probably the most talkative cat I’ve ever known. Every evening while I’m writing, he settles onto the couch nearby, occasionally offering commentary that I’m certain he thinks is important.

After Luna died, we adopted Peanut so Tyler wouldn’t be lonely.

Somehow, the little kitten grew into an enormous cat who firmly believes that the bed belongs to him and that Len and I are simply fortunate enough to share it. He’s a bed hog, but he’s also one of the sweetest cats I’ve ever known.

They’re wonderful, and I can’t imagine the house without them.

But every now and then someone asks if I’ll ever have another dog.

The honest answer is…

I don’t know.

Rusty and Micky were the last two dogs I’ve had, and they were such good boys.

Maybe someday my heart will be ready again.

Maybe it won’t.

For now, I’m simply grateful for the years I had with them.

One of the hardest parts of loving animals is knowing that, eventually, we’ll have to say goodbye.

The trade doesn’t seem fair.

We get a decade or maybe two if we’re lucky.

They give us everything they have.

They celebrate us when we come home, sit beside us when life falls apart, and somehow know exactly when we need them most. They ask for so little in return.

The heartbreak is real.

So is the joy.

If I had it to do over again, I’d choose every one of them.

Even knowing how their stories end.

Because they became part of mine.

And while Tyler and Peanut keep this house full of life today, there will always be a special place in my heart for Rusty and Micky.

Those sweet boys were the best.

Who has been the pet you’ll never forget? I’d love to hear their story in the comments.