For Harley

Dearest Harley,

Or Herbert, as Kevin recently sometimes started calling you, or Bombo as Robin sometimes called you.

I still can’t fully believe this is real.

On Monday, I took you to the vet, thinking you were struggling to recover from an injury. Maybe arthritis. Of course, we expected something manageable.

Never did I imagine the scan would reveal advanced bone cancer.

And somehow, despite slowing down a lot lately and struggling to walk a lot at times, especially in the last few weeks, you were still completely yourself.

Your usual modus operandi cheerful, always wagging your tail.
Always available for vacuum services in the kitchen in case of accidental food dropping while cooking — preferably meat, carrots, or cucumbers. Or scanning the dining room table or kitchen counter for goodies we might have possibly “forgotten” or “left” for you.

I don’t believe I am ever able to take a cucumber out of the fridge again without expecting to see you dash around the corner to get the end pieces and a few more slices.

Lettuce you never even considered a food, that look in your eyes telling me “come on, you serious?” will stay with me forever.

Let’s not digress too much, you made it so easy to find so many happy memories …

Always looking for cuddles.
Greeting us with not just your tail wagging but your whole body vibrating with joy.
Even if I were just coming back from a shower, you’d greet me with great enthusiasm.

And yesterday, when we had to let you go, you left this world exactly the way you entered our family: playful, calm, and a little mischievous.

As we were holding you when the vet gave you a sedative, you still managed to put your head into the treat bag on the right side of my fanny pack and gobbled everything up with that innocent and proud look in your eyes, as if to say:
“Look what I managed to do.”

Oh Harley…

You were such a sweet boy.

We already miss you so much.

I miss waking up and seeing your sweet, happy face, with your loving eyes staring into mine.

The way you were never simply near us, but always somehow leaning into us — cradled against my legs, tucked against our side, always pressed against our bodies as closely as possible. We all loved that about you. The affection and love you shared so freely and abundantly. Of course, if we dared to stop caressing you, you ensured that your need for affection was always met as you kept bonking your head until we did. I remember all the times over the past few years when I just wanted to finish some work, you made it clear you disagreed by simply putting your head on my keyboard.

This morning was hard.

Waking up, for a moment, my body still expected you to be there beside me. And then reality arrived again. It felt unbearably empty on my left side, where you usually were.

I wanted to walk the same walk you and I used to do, even when you were not there. But somehow I still expected to hear the sound of your little paws jumping off the chair the second you heard me open the corridor door. It didn’t matter where I was going — upstairs, outside, to the washroom for two minutes — you always needed to know what I was doing.

You always followed us.

Always wanting to be close.

As if life itself was more beautiful simply because we were doing it together.

I miss calling out “Harley, comin’ for walk?” and seeing your whole body light up with excitement.

This morning, I walked one of the last routes we used to go, this time for the first time without you. Our circle had become shorter and shorter in these last few weeks, still believing you simply needed more rest to recover.

I so miss watching you run happily from flower to flower, smelling every bush with such curiosity and delight, completely absorbed in the simple joy of being alive.

And lifting your leg against every other tree, making sure all the other doggies in the neighbourhood knew you were king.

I deeply admire your absolutely extraordinary bladder control and ability to keep watering more bushes after what seemed like fifty already. I honestly never understood how there could possibly still be anything left, yet somehow you always managed to proudly water one more tree.

You surely were our cuddle king, Harley.

So present.
So loving.
So joyful in the smallest things.

The house feels painfully empty without the sound of your little paws trip-trapping through the rooms, searching for a cuddle, a snack, or some treasure to steal that absolutely needed to be ceremoniously shredded in the hallway downstairs.

Socks.
Tissues.
Wood chips from the front yard whenever you managed to sneak past the door after visitors arrived.

You approached these treasures with deep seriousness and absolute delight.

And food…
Oh Harley, you loved food.

Thinking of food, I do have to mention the great ontbijtkoek obsession.

One Friday evening, you managed to swallow a sharp ceramic shard.

The veterinary clinics were closed for the weekend, and I was so scared that the sharp piece might rupture your stomach.

I called an emergency veterinary service, and to my surprise, the vet told me to give you lots of ontbijtkoek — a sticky Dutch ginger cake made with rye flour, dark brown sugar, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg.

She explained that its sticky texture could help coat the sharp edges and provide the best chance that everything passes safely through your system.

Well…

You survived perfectly fine.

But unfortunately for us, you also discovered that ontbijtkoek was apparently one of the greatest delicacies ever created.

From that moment on, I could never bring ginger cake into the house again without you loudly demanding your share as if the entire thing had been invented specifically for you.

Back in Canada, Lakshmi’s homemade Indian food would send you completely over the edge with excitement. And the same with pizza. Especially Chicco’s pizza here in Bakel. We had wanted to get you some yesterday, but they were closed.

So on your last day yesterday, we got you a big salami pizza from Jumbo. We kinda expected you wouldn’t manage to eat it all, but you did. And you wanted more. So you had some slices from Robin’s triple-meat pizza as well.

It felt right.

I miss seeing your face in the front window every time we turn the corner with our car, driving back home. The way you were scanning the street and completely lit up when you recognized us or at least our car.

By the time I reached the driveway, you were already wagging not just your tail but your entire body with pure delight.

And I especially miss what always came next. After greeting us, you’d run back into the house searching for one of your toys so you could proudly bring it to us, inviting us to play before we had even taken off our coats.

Today feels so painful. Everywhere I look, it feels like you are still here.

Your balls in the yard.
Your toys are scattered through the house.
Your “throne” in the dining room.
Little reminders of a life together with you woven into every corner of this home.

You brought softness into this house.

Compassion too.

The boys loved you deeply, and through loving you, caring for you, and cuddling you, they grew softer themselves.

You were unbelievably gentle and calm.
Except, of course, when the doorbell rang.

Or food was involved. Or a garbage truck driving by.

Then suddenly this soft little soul became wonderfully feisty.

Living with your stronger brother Max was not always easy for you. But after coming to the Netherlands from Canada in March 2024, something in you seemed to settle even more deeply.

Belly-up became your preferred way of existing in the world — completely trusting, completely surrendered, completely at ease.

And in many ways, you mirrored something inside us too.
A growing self-trust.
A softer way of living.

Every single day, teaching us so much about love.
About joy.
About gentleness.

And now, heartbreakingly, you are teaching us about grief.

I hope our memory of you never fades.
The warmth of you.
The softness of your fur.
The sound of your paws.
The way you leaned into us.
The way you loved us so openly and so completely.

Our little boy, you are no longer here in the way you were before.

But your spirit still is.
Our love for each other stays.

Run free now, sweet boy. Somewhere full of sunlight, soft grass, endless walks and bacon-scented balls like the ones you loved so much, and all the pizza and treats your heart could ever want. I hope wherever you are now, you know how deeply you are loved.

And if one day our hearts are ready to welcome another dog into this family…

I secretly hope it will somehow be you finding your way back to us again.

Thank you, sweet Harley.

We love you forever.