A little more than a month ago, I held my baby girl’s face as she took her last breath.

On June 26, at approximately 6 p.m., I dropped the descriptor anticipatory from my grief.

It is now just grief.

An all-encompassing sorrow brought on by a broken heart, a silent home and the emptiness that comes with the absence of her life force.

Bella was exactly that: a force.

A force of nature.

From the moment I set eyes on her almost 12 years ago, she was both fierce and gentle, fiery and loving, demanding and generous.

And most importantly, she became my everything.

My adventure companion.

My study buddy.

My confidante.

My muse.

My best friend.

She shaped the life we shared

There is no tidy way to describe what it means to lose a dog who occupied that much space in your life.

She was not simply beside me for nearly 12 years. She shaped those years.

She changed how I moved through the world, how I understood dogs, how I made photographs, and how I understood love, trust, responsibility and grief.

Together, we built a life of adventures throughout the areas around Spokane and Coeur d’Alene. We walked trails, explored riverbanks, wandered through tall grass and followed roads simply to see where they might take us. Bella was with me through countless mornings in the woods, afternoons beside the water and long drives into the landscapes of Eastern Washington and North Idaho.

She knew the routes to some of our favorite places. When we began getting close to Farragut State Park, she recognized where we were going. She would become more alert and excited as the familiar turns brought us nearer to the trails, trees and lake. She did not need me to tell her an adventure was beginning. She already knew.

Those places became part of our shared language. They were where she investigated the world at her own deliberate pace, where I learned to watch her closely, and where dog photography began to become more than an idea. The photographs I made of Bella around Spokane and Coeur d’Alene were never simply pictures of a beautiful white dog in a beautiful landscape. They were records of the life we were building together.

I have been looking back at photographs from 12 years ago.

When she was a puppy.

When dog photography was just an idea.

When I saw the world through her puppy eyes.

When I saw her resistance, but also her willingness to trust.

When I saw her need me and I saw myself needing her.

She mended my broken heart and left me with a shattered one.

We allow them into every corner of our lives knowing, or refusing to know, that one day their absence will be just as enormous as their presence.

And Bella’s absence is enormous.

The enormity of her absence

It is there when I wake in the morning and no one is waiting to begin the day with me.

It is there in the silence where her breathing used to be.

It is there in the places where her beds, bowls and body belonged.

And it is there, still, in every ordinary moment, with some part of me expecting her to appear.

It follows me into the places we explored together. The trails remain. The roads still lead to Farragut State Park and all the other places she knew. But the passenger seat is empty, and there is no burst of recognition from the back of the car when we make a familiar turn.

But grief is not the only thing she left behind.

She left behind a body of photographs that shows who she was: watchful, stubborn, dignified, ridiculous, beautiful and entirely herself.

She left behind nearly 12 years of trails, rivers, road trips, routines and negotiations.

And she left behind a community of people who helped us care for her when love alone was not enough.

When the circle of care widens

Dr. Julie Sowa at the now-closed Pawlouse Veterinary Therapy helped Bella through some of the hardest years of her physical decline following TPLO surgery.

Dr. Whitney Nelson and her incredible team at Small Animal Internal Medicine, based out of Pet Emergency Clinic, gave us expertise, honesty and care when Bella’s health became complicated and frightening.

Tiana and Shawn Heath at Heath’s Haven helped us fit Bella in her wheelchair when I believed that was what she needed, and when I was still searching for one more way to help her remain in the world.

And my dear friend Cat has held me up through all of this in ways she probably does not even know.

There are moments in a dog’s life when the circle of care widens.

The people who help us manage pain, make impossible decisions, try one more thing, and finally understand when trying one more thing is no longer the kindest choice become part of the story too.

I will always be grateful that Bella was surrounded by people who respected her, cared for her and understood how deeply she was loved.

Learning to live where she is not

I do not know yet what life without her looks like.

Right now, it looks like grief.

It looks like learning how to inhabit a home that no longer contains the being around whom so much of my life revolved.

It looks like reaching for her and finding memory.

The photographs remain.

The trails we walked around Spokane and Coeur d’Alene remain.

The life we made together remains.

Bella was here.

She mattered.

She was loved beyond measure.

And for nearly 12 years, I had the extraordinary privilege of being hers.