Sadie Mae and Lily Bean, always by my side
There are many difficult parts to leaving for China, but none pull at my heart quite like saying goodbye to Sadie and Lily. They are my constant companions, my shadows, my silent comforters. They don’t speak, but they know. They feel the rhythm of my life and match their days to mine. And as the time to go draws nearer, I already miss them.
The decision for them to stay with my daughter at the house is, without question, the best possible outcome. They’ll remain together, in their home, in familiar surroundings. They’ll be cared for and loved. They’ll walk the same trails, sleep on the same couches, and keep each other company. But that doesn’t ease the ache that grows a little more each day I prepare to leave.
The girls go everywhere with me, except when it’s too hot out and I worry they’ll overheat waiting in the car. Around the house, they follow me room to room. If I go upstairs, Sadie will sometimes stay below, but Lily is usually already stretched across my bed before I get there. They are never far. When I move, they stir. When I reach for my coat, they know. That’s the cue, the trigger moment—they spring to life, hopeful that we’re going for a walk, maybe even a trip to our favorite place.
Puppies are chaos. They chew, they whine, they destroy. Lily lived up to every bit of that promise. And yet, slowly, she grew on me. Under the mayhem was a goofy, lovable, dorky soul with a heart made of gold.
Farm 12 is more than a local restaurant. For me, it’s my sanctuary. Van Lierop Park, just next to it, is my quiet place. In the spring, the lupine bloom with a soft purpling hue. The open farm fields nearby give a sense of space, a hint of wildness that’s rare these days. The view of Mt. Rainier on a clear day is nothing short of soul-stirring. In the fall, low-lying fog gives the place a stillness, while Canadian geese call out from above and gather in the distance. It is where I go to reflect. For Sadie and Lily, it’s their happy place. Off-leash, they run with abandon, especially in the quiet hours of dusk or dawn when we often have it to ourselves. There will be no place I miss more than this simple, sacred routine with the girls.
Ginger especially was a disaster, and yet I came to understand her—a free spirit who didn’t want to be caged, who loved to run. In the end, she passed with a piece of my heart in her paws.
I spoke with my wife about bringing Sadie with me to China. We considered it seriously. She and her sister Ginger (rest her soul) were both rescue dogs from Taiwan, so in a way, Asia is familiar soil to her. My daughter had found the rescue organization online, and they flew the pair into Seattle, where I picked them up. I remember how terrified they were. They destroyed things, barked endlessly, ran from everything, and sent the cats into hiding. Ginger especially was a disaster, and yet I came to understand her—a free spirit who didn’t want to be caged, who loved to run. In the end, she passed with a piece of my heart in her paws.
Sadie, over time, became mine in a way I never expected. She’s standoffish, emotionally reserved, but she watches. She waits. She lets you in, slowly. These days, she leans into me, seeking a quiet closeness that feels like trust.
And then there’s Lily.
I was vehemently against getting a puppy. I said no. I argued. I protested. I was, if I’m being honest, furious when she was brought home. Puppies are chaos. They chew, they whine, they destroy. Lily lived up to every bit of that promise. And yet, slowly, she grew on me. Under the mayhem was a goofy, lovable, dorky soul with a heart made of gold. She was, and is, just joy in dog form. My daughter and I agreed to a sort of shared custody arrangement once she moved to a house where she could have a dog, but I found it hard to let Lily go. She’s become such a part of my day, my routine, my world. Sadie is my sweet, stoic Sadie—but Lily is the comic relief, the affectionate little (but bigger) sister. She’s my Lily Bean. I’m so glad she’s in my life.
Leaving them is hard. I know it’s temporary. I know I’ll be back. I even know that if all goes as planned, there will be a time when I’ll be back for them—or I bring one of them over. But knowing that doesn’t take away the tightness in my chest, the lump in my throat. They are not just dogs. They are family. They are reminders of what love looks like when it’s quiet, patient, and ever-present.
Even Ginger, the wild child, earned her place in my heart. She challenged me. She pushed me. She tested the limits of my patience. But she taught me too—about freedom, about acceptance, about how love can look like letting go.
There are so many reasons I want to bring my wife home to the U.S., to build our life here. But one of the reasons that pulls hardest at me is these two girls. Their quiet companionship has steadied me in moments I didn’t know I needed it. As I sit here, writing, they lay beside me, breathing softly. I miss them already. I’ll miss them every day.
They are blessings, simple and profound, and I thank God for them.
So, this post is for Sadie and Lily—for their loyalty, their love, and the joy they bring to my life. I carry them in my heart, and I look forward to the day I come back to them, coat in hand, ready to go for a walk.
Echo From The West 