I miss Scout, and Sean, and me

There are so many moments I'd forgotten. There are so many more I'll never remember.

I am once again thinking about the fact that Scout is going to die. Not soon—not if all goes as planned, if we continue to be so lucky in our lives together—but not in a distant unimaginable future, either. She will die and I will have to go on without her (how?) and my habit of scrolling through old photos, soaking in memories, will feel different than it does now.

It already feels like grief just to realize how much the three of us have changed since I adopted our shy-but-sweet stray heeler. Scout’s body shape has sagged. Her ears and whiskers are graying. Sean and I have new wrinkles around our own eyes.

Of course core parts of our lives are the same—we love each other; we have great fun; we prioritize play—but I still feel vaguely like I’m blinking in confusion on my way out of the movie theater or waking from an accidental nap. How much time has passed, you say? Where am I, again?

All this (*gestures wildly*) is amplified tonight because Sean and I reminisced. Reminiscing itself is a common occurrence, but this time we went through his photo library instead of mine—and nearly every image on his phone is of Scout. He’s not much of a photographer by default, but he always listens when I, with hands full or camera out of reach, implore him to “take a cute photo of the pup”.

There are so many moments I’d forgotten. (Scout sitting by the front door of our newly purchased house in Florida while Sean hung out of the attic, renovation dust coating everything; the wonky wall climb setup we tried to build when I thought I’d get really into GRC Dog Sports; her fabric beehive toy stuffed with small squeaky toys; the ancient pink frisbee she dug up in the yard that I later threw on the roof not once but twice.) There are so many more I’ll never remember without images to help.

It’s not that I want to go back in time. Our life today is my favorite version—I have never felt more loved and steady and proud.

But my contentment exists alongside heavy sadness. I miss my 21-year-old self. I miss Scout, fresh from the humane society, even though I thought her reactivity training might break us. I miss Sean introducing me to bands I’d never heard.

I am aware in some back part of my brain that these emotions might be a cliched I’m-approaching-30-ish thing. Next month Sean turns 28—I join him in July. I’ve been drafting a longer essay about defining myself as young for so long and realizing that is a fragile, ill-advised core identifier. (Olivia Rodrigo, parasocial little sister of my dreams, once again sings in my head: When will I stop being great for my age and just start being good?)

Or maybe it’s that we’ve been moving for more than two years in our van now—and while I like to think I’m adept at reflecting the whole way through, sometimes momentum carries you until a quiet moment like tonight when its croon fades beneath time’s tempest and suddenly you are almost drowning. Not quite drowning; you’re good at swimming, and you’ve always loved the water. But almost.

Earlier I asked Sean if he ever grieves the past even though right now is great. He said of course. (Then he made some joke about missing when his body, which can still easily run seven or eight miles in the southern heat, was more nimble. Leave it to him to help me see how ridiculous I’m being.)

We’ve done a lot of living in our six-plus years together, me and that boy-man and our dog. A lot of living and a lot of figuring and a lot of feeling. We have more to do.