Losing the love of my life almost broke me. Then I found the Stanley pup

This First Person column is written by Dwan Street, who lives in Mount Pearl. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

"I don't know if this will be a deal breaker for you or not — but when Vinny and Claude go, no more dogs. I don't think our hearts can handle losing them."

My partner looked at me, waiting for my response.

We were in a relatively new relationship, about two or three months in, and each of us had brought a senior rescue dog into our new little family — Brad's Vinny, a border collie mix and my Claude, a Beagle Paws rescue affectionately known as "the Frenchman," as he came from St-Pierre-Miquelon.

I nodded, and over the months and years that followed, we settled into the routines that come with having senior dogs: vet visits, realizations they could no longer go for long walks and, inevitably, an illness that took Claude in Christmas of 2020.

And while we kept donating to Beagle Paws and fostered shelter beagles through snowstorms, we kept our promise to not bring more dogs into our family.

There were new jobs, vacations, a home. We held each other through the loss of my aunt, my grandmother and his father. Life carried on.

Until one night it did not.

Brad was taken on a dark night in April, in a crash on his way to pick me up from a work trip.

They say when a partner dies, you feel like you've lost your identity, your sense of self, and have to reinvent your whole existence as a person.

Everything about who you are changes: your days and nights, your hobbies, your eating habits, your relationships; your responsibilities, your needs, your… you.

Life stood still. I was never sure it would move again.

People stopped visiting, I threw away the food I couldn't eat, and one by one the flowers withered away around me. Folks carried on with their lives while I forced myself not to yell, "Don't you know he died?!"

One day in June I was scrolling through the Beagle Paws Facebook page for happy, slobbery smiles. Watching a video of dogs who needed foster homes, I thought I could take one for a short time while I adjusted to my new life.

But as I watched the rambunctious balls of energy, I kept thinking I would not know what to do with a puppy now.

Then the camera panned to the corner of the yard, where a little silver face lifted lazily, obviously annoyed to have been woken from his sunbathing session.

His name was Stanley and he was thought to be 10 years old. His name struck me: I was a hockey player who had found a Stanley pup!

The following Sunday, I took Stanley home, and that night I played hockey. When I got home he greeted me in the window … which meant he was on the kitchen counter. I opened the door to a broken lamp, a smashed carton of nectarines, a chewed-up box of kitchen utensils — and a wagging tail.

I needed to get the energy out of this dog somehow ("elderly" my butt). So I laced up my running shoes and we walked. We walked in the morning, on lunch breaks and after work.

I had been a triathlete, but my training halted the second Brad died. It was hard to leave the house and I found myself often sitting in the dark in silence, waiting for sleep to come so I could make it to another day.

But there was none of that now. Stanley demanded we explore our new neighbourhood. There were so many fences to sniff and so many new dogs and people to meet.

He would curl up at my feet as I worked, and cuddle on the couch in the evenings. He became my shadow, his grey face resting on my leg as I sat at the laptop, and I knew there was no way he was just a foster.

So one night I looked at him and, as he tilted his head, velvet ears perked, I asked him if he would like me to be his forever mom. His expression told me all I needed to know: "You already are."

I signed his adoption papers the next day.

Stanley settled in. He took his perch in the living room window, looking over his new neighbourhood. Neighbours waved to him every day as they walked by, sometimes with their own pups, who have become his friends.

And he woke me every morning to get out in the fresh air and walk.

There have been many adventures since: football on Sundays, hockey games (during which he glares grumpily when I yell at my beloved Penguins), camper nights with my best friend Sheena and her kids (who he adores), and many nights just sitting and talking — though he has not talked back yet.

We can learn a lot from dogs on how to savour every moment, how to turn what could be anger into joy, and how to embrace every day for its little joys, the little lights that peek through the cracks in the darkness.

It would have been very easy for Stanley to turn against the species that ultimately discarded him.

But he did not.

Instead, he is a beacon of light, love and hope. There is hair on the couch and happy dances every time I come through the door.

Many more walks to come

Stanley doesn't care if I don't have the energy to talk; Stanley doesn't care if a song that evokes raw emotion in me gets repeated three times, nine times; Stanley doesn't care when my attempt to make a nice supper turns into takeout because I realized I was making Brad's favourite meal.

And we still walk. We take in the fresh air in the mornings, sometimes running and laughing in the pouring rain that never deters him from rolling in the grass.

I was once asked why I didn't adopt a younger dog, one who would not cause grief so much sooner. The answer is simple: the puppies, the ones whose faces have not yet turned silver, the ones whose eyes have not yet dulled with age, will have an easier time finding homes.

Even though Stanley is older, he still has much to offer and so much left of this life to love and experience. Whether he and I have one year left together or 10, the impact he has had on my life cannot be expressed.

I know that the wonderful volunteers who put their time into animal rescue save many lives. But the animals who are rescued save lives too.

Read more from CBC Newfoundland and Labrador