I wish I had more photographs of Mika.
Thankfully, I got another chance.
I didn't grow up with dogs. But I knew from a young age that I wanted one.
My life was busy working and growing a budding pet sitting business, and I knew it wasn't ready for a puppy yet. In the meantime, I took care of other people's dogs. I was exposed to so many different breeds, but there was one I kept gravitating toward: the Golden Retriever.
Finally, when the time was right, I brought home a golden puppy and named her Mika.
She was a part of my life through so many changes - buying my first home, relationships, marriage, getting pregnant and then losing the baby. She was there for the good days and the bad ones. She was my best friend.
In those days, we didn't have digital cameras or cell phone cameras. I took photos of her with my point-and-shoot film camera, but most were blurry and out of focus.
Then, three days after she turned nine, Mika collapsed.
We rushed her to the emergency vet. Her spleen had ruptured, and the vet said she likely had hemangiosarcoma, a cancer of the blood. She needed emergency surgery, but if the cancer had spread, the vet recommended we let her go.
For hours, my husband and I sat in the waiting room, not knowing if I would ever see her again.
And while I waited, I thought about all the photographs I had of her.
And I realized it wasn't very many.
I pleaded. I prayed. I begged. I tried to negotiate with the great being in the sky.
Please don't take my girl from me. Please give me more time.
I made a promise that if she made it through, I would photograph her every day for the rest of her life.
We were one of the lucky ones. The cancer had not spread. Mika's surgery went well - she was coming home!
We got seven more wonderful months together.
And I kept my promise.
I photographed her every day. We explored parks together, and I always brought my camera with me. I photographed her at home, with my husband, and when the fur that was shaved for the surgery grew back, I photographed her at all the same places again.
Those photographs weren't technically perfect. I was still learning. But they were better than what I had before, and they became some of the most treasured photographs I have today.
When I look at them now, I remember my steady Eddie. Her dark brown, soulful eyes. The gray around her muzzle.
I remember her side-eye when I asked her to do something ridiculous, like jump onto a concrete wall so I could photograph her with a really cool background.
Sometimes a song comes on the radio—a song that was a hit when I was driving her to chemotherapy - and I'm right back in those summer days. I remember the feel of the sun on my face and the walks I took on campus while she was in treatment.
That's what those photographs give me.
They bring me back to a time in my life when she was still here.
She is the reason I became a pet photographer.
By the time she collapsed, I had purchased a DSLR and was learning how to use it. My skills grew the more I photographed her. Once I realized I could give other pet owners the gift I gave myself, I knew I wanted to take photography more seriously.
Dogs don't have milestones like we do. We don't have their first day of school, graduation, weddings and all the other moments we naturally think to photograph throughout our lives.
But they have chapters, too.
The puppy years when their paws are too big for their bodies.
The crazy young-dog years.
The years when they settle into who they are.
The senior years, when their muzzle gets gray and they move a little slower.
Photograph all of it.
Take the phone pictures.
And get in some of those photographs, too.
Because this chapter in your life will mean more to you as the years go by.
Even today, when I look at those photographs of Mika, the tears still fall, followed by a smile as I remember the life we shared together.
I wish I had more photographs of her. I always will. But I'm grateful for the ones I have.
Don't wait until you wish you had more photos.