All Dogs Staying Together
Loss and Hope in a New Reality (No. 97)
The first house I owned—the “Little House on the Highway”—sat about seven miles up US 25 from the Woodland Mall in Bowling Green, Ohio. In 1989, the mall was still a local novelty, having opened only a few years prior. It was modest by the standards of the day, anchored on one end by a JCPenney and on the other by an Elder-Beerman. Between those pillars thrived the quintessential 1980s retail ecosystem: Waldenbooks, Payless ShoeSource, Claire’s, and a multi-screen cinema.
The theater’s marquee out on the highway frequently truncated titles to fit its limited real estate. One afternoon, as my wife and I drove past, she suddenly exclaimed, “That sounds like a good movie! We should see that.” I glanced at the jumble of letters, but they didn’t immediately register. “Which one?” I asked.
“All Dogs Staying Together,” she replied confidently.
There was, it turned out, no such film. The marquee was advertising two separate features: All Dogs Go to Heaven, Don Bluth’s gritty animated tale of canine redemption, and Staying Together, a comedy-drama about three brothers struggling to save their family restaurant. We saw neither, but that phantom title became a humorous fixture in our family lore.
Decades later, the intersection of cinema and canines took a more serious turn. Upon its 2017 release, the film A Dog’s Purpose sparked a firestorm regarding animal welfare. Leaked footage allegedly showed a German Shepherd being forced into turbulent water, leading to widespread outrage. Although an independent investigation later concluded the footage had been deceptively edited and that no animals were harmed, the reputational damage was done. Many dog lovers, driven by a fierce protective instinct, boycotted the film entirely.
Controversy aside, the film explores a poignant premise: a cycle of canine reincarnation in which a dog’s spirit is transferred to a new puppy after each life. It is a comforting concept—one that feels particularly resonant when navigating the heavy silence that follows the loss of a companion. I find myself leaning into that comfort now. Millie, our German Shorthaired Pointer, had her “final vet visit” a week ago Friday.
We adopted Millie halfway through her life. While we missed her puppyhood, we cherished every moment of the six and a half years we shared. Her life story was etched in her quirks and resilience; we believe she spent her first half-decade as a “puppy mill mom,” likely abandoned the moment she was no longer seen as a “producer.” It is a bittersweet irony that a dog who began her life as a commodity ended it as a treasure.
If the theory of a “dog’s purpose” holds any weight, Millie’s mission was threefold. She existed first to heal, overcoming a traumatic beginning to trust humans again with a heart that remained remarkably open. She lived to shine as a constant, gentle light in our daily lives, and ultimately, she was here to teach us the true depth of unconditional love and the transformative power of a second chance. While the reincarnation suggested by the movies is a lovely thought, Millie doesn’t need a new body to remain with us. A dog who has been loved that well never truly leaves; she simply changes the way she stays.
I’ve observed two common overreactions to the loss of a dog: rushing to find an immediate replacement or swearing off dog ownership forever. Both are short-sighted. Attempting to “replace” a dog is a fool’s errand; each spirit is too distinct, and the pressure on a newcomer to mimic a ghost is unfair. Conversely, those who swear off future dogs out of fear of pain are blinded to the vitality and uncomplicated grace a dog brings to a home.
When adopting a rescue, many follow the “3-3-3 Rule”: three days for the dog to decompress, three weeks to learn the routine, and three months to feel secure. I believe a similar “Rule of Three” applies to grief. It takes three days to come to grips with the initial shock, three weeks to settle into the new routine, and three months to finally accept the new reality.
As Millie’s health declined, my wife and I made a pact: we would put 90 days between our loss and any discussion of what comes next. On August 1st, we will look at where we are and how we feel. Until then, I like to think that if that old Woodland Mall marquee were still standing today, the jumble of letters would finally make perfect sense. It would simply read: Millie Staying Forever.