People thought I was a little crazy when I brought home a 10-week-old Doberman Pinscher — especially after having spent the past six years with senior rescue American Cocker Spaniels.
Honestly, I wondered that myself sometimes.
This decision wasn’t about replacing what I lost — because nothing ever replaces that kind of love. It was about resilience. About allowing room for new life after deep grief. About choosing to keep moving forward while still honoring what had been.
Grieving is natural. Loss leaves its mark whether we want it to or not. And it deserves its space.
But healing can come with support — sometimes from unexpected places.
Milo & Mila — My Pandemic Companions
Milo and Mila came into my life as seniors — already fragile, already slowing down. They lived with me for almost six years, and during that time they became my constant companions.
They went everywhere with me — including my monthly trips to Southern California for military duty. They were my sidekicks through routines, road trips, and quiet nights. And when the pandemic reshaped the world, they were my bubble. My comfort. My reason to keep structure when everything else felt uncertain.
These little dogs weren’t just pets — they were presence. They taught me patience, tenderness, and the power of simply showing up for someone every day.
Saying Goodbye
Despite how much we want to hold on forever, life has its own timing.
I said goodbye to Milo in May of 2023 and Mila in October 2023. Even when we know it’s time, that doesn’t make letting go any easier. We both knew it — but knowing doesn’t soften heartbreak.
For a while, I planned to remain dogless. I thought I needed empty space to grieve. And I did — for a while.
Enter Luger
Then on November 7, everything changed. I met Luger, a local breeder’s Doberman puppy, just 10 weeks old — all legs, curiosity, and energy.
I’ve always loved the breed. I also knew if I ever wanted a working dog, now was the time. Starting one from puppyhood, training it properly, and committing to the lifestyle it deserves is no small task — and it’s definitely easier before you’re older.
People thought I was reckless — going from senior rescues to one of the most demanding breeds out there. Some days, I thought they might be right.
Luger isn’t an easy dog.
He is high-energy, intense, incredibly smart, deeply protective, and constantly challenging me to rise to the occasion. There were moments when I questioned my sanity. Raising him wasn’t about cuddling on the couch — it was about discipline, consistency, learning, and showing up no matter what.
But something surprising happened along the way.
Healing Through Action
Luger got me out of bed.
He demanded movement when I wanted stillness, purpose when I felt flat, and presence when grief wanted to pull me inward.
Training him forced me back into routine. Caring for him gave me responsibility beyond my own emotional spiral. And gradually, without me even noticing, he was stitching me back toward life.
Luger doesn’t replace Milo or Mila — and he never could. What he did do is help me heal alongside my grief instead of getting stuck in it.
Now, just over two years old, he is everything I hoped for:
A fiercely loyal companion.
A protector.
A teacher.
A partner in life.
The more effort I pour into training and caring for him, the more he gives back — easily threefold.
Love Doesn’t End — It Evolves
I still miss Milo and Mila every day. I always will.
But grief doesn’t mean love disappears. It means love changes form — becoming memory, gratitude, and sometimes the courage to open your heart again.
Luger didn’t erase my loss — he helped carry me through it.
I now know something for sure:
I will always have a Doberman.
Not just for the protection.
Not just for the working partnership.
But for what Luger gave me during my most vulnerable transition — proof that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, and moving forward doesn’t mean leaving love behind. I cherish the time I had with my cockers.
I cherish the present I have with Luger.
And I’m grateful I chose life — even in the middle of heartbreak.
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