Balto The Dog Will Live Forever

It was almost exactly three years ago that Balto The Dog passed away from this life. Since that fateful day, I’ve written a lot about her—some bitter words of angst, some soulful words of love, some rambling incoherent drivel. I’d always planned to assemble it into the blog you see here today, but I never wanted to take that step. It seemed too final. I didn’t want to say good-bye. I wasn’t ready. 

I’ve dealt with a lot of pain over the last three years, including the loss of my best friend last January. One thing that strikes me about the passing of those close to me is that no matter how much it hurts to not have them present in this life anymore, it still feels like they are with me. If I bring their image to mind, I experience them as strikingly real deep sensations. They are present in me, full stop.

There’s that saying, how does it go? That a person never dies, that their memory lives on in those they touched forever? Honestly it feels like much, much more than that. I have inherited their presence right down to my core, presence that manifests in profound feelings of joy, of compassion, of love, of sadness. They are a part of me, from my brain to my bones to the essence that defines my worldview. They touched my life and I simply wouldn’t be here today, as I am, without their continued dwelling within me. Reflecting on this reality has solidified my belief that we all are one, that whatever form we take, whatever body we inhabit, is but a temporary vessel, and that something more lives on, goes on, is out there. I don’t know what that means but I don’t have to know. I feel it. 

I have 822 photos of my dear Balto, a selection of which I’ll provide at the end of this post. After what seems like a lifetime of worrying about taking too many pictures of dogs, it’s not enough. Not even close. None of those pictures bring anything other than a shallow glimpse of the experience of being with her. None of them can compare to the soft glee she brought with every trot into a room. Her endearing look of simple and genuine excitement. Her disappointing dismay when seeing a particular dinner. Her stoic ferociousness with which she defended her home, her gentle stillness as she lay down to sleep. The look of the jokester, the bringer of joy. The concern in those eyes, oh the inconsolable concern. 

This blog is a collection of thoughts that ran through my head in the final moments of Balto’s life. There was frustration, anger, love, and grief. Yes, I constantly preach acceptance of “what is” these days, but at the time, no sage advice was going to console me. It hurt. A lot. 

In those final moments, laying on a bruised and beaten yoga mat that reflected my state of mind, my head next to hers as her soft breaths grew shallow, I was overwhelmed with sadness. What else could I do but write how I felt. I surely wasn’t going to sleep. Every moment mattered. If there is one thing you take away from this blog, let it be that. Every moment we spend with the ones we love, matters. Don’t miss the moments. Ever. 

The Final Hours

During her last day, Balto had started eating a bit of food again, showing signs of spirit that clung to life. I was able to take her on a very short, slow walk, let her get in some smells, and give her everything I could think of for the day. Then the final difficult night came, where she became unable to get up, as her body ceased listening to her brain. Her conscious proprioception was nil, and even being carried out to the back to urinate was not enough to help her stand on her own. At least this brought confidence that it was time. As I laid by her side throughout the night, not getting a single minute’s rest, for she would regularly stir and whine and reposition slightly, but not quite all the way, so that having me there to help her reposition surely gave her comfort…as the night progressed I must have petted her 5000 times. The lack of rest or the pain in my arms was irrelevant. I wasn’t going to miss a moment.

—

As I write this, I sit beside my dear, dear friend and companion, whom I am about to help depart this life, within the next few hours. 

We learn in Buddhism the importance of not clinging, the importance of letting go. We learn of the trap of being attached, to our identities, to the things we enjoy, to the people and animals we love. We learn the importance of acceptance. We learn of the reality that all things and experiences are impermanent, that in fact the only certainty in life is change. 

Change. I couldn’t imagine a less emotionally appropriate way to phrase death. 

Overbearing, humiliating, decrepit, taunting sadness. That feels more appropriate. If I took all the negative feelings I’ve had in my life, the loss, the rejection, the loneliness, the hostility, the anger, the despair, if I crammed those all together and stuffed them into a space the size of a quarter in my chest, then, maybe, possibly, that would describe my feelings. Not “change.” 

I’ve been upset at my mindfulness practice over the past week. Upset because it’s made me feel centered and balanced at what has ended up being the last week of my friend and partner Balto the Dog’s life. Upset at myself because I had the hubris to think that I wasn’t being affected by this reality, that I had somehow beaten grief. It feels like I wasted that week. 

This is the part of the blog where I’d normally say now wait, that’s just how I’m thinking about it, I actually really benefited from the practice, it helped me blah blah blah. Or that I didn’t waste that week. Or that I should console myself with the memory of all the good times we spent together, rather than focus on the times she was a bad girl who dug up my garden and barked at the neighbors. Or that we should cherish every minute of every day that we spend with someone we love, for we know not when they will be gone forever. 

But no. No, right now, I’m just allowing for sadness and grief. Those other things are probably true. And I’m sure I’ll circle back to them the next time I am allowed to offer comfort to a friend in need. But for now, this is just an awful feeling, a heart-splitting experience, and no amount of reasoning or talking or sympathizing will change that. Even writing these words I’m tempted to say that time will heal all wounds. That it will all be ok. But the reality is that it’s not ok, right now. It’s just not. 

I’m going to spend some time lying down with her now.

—

I’m currently reading a book called Sacred Knowledge by clinical psychologist William Richards. Having been involved with legal research on psychedelics since the 60s, he makes the case for the profound possibilities of the responsible use of psychedelics to help reduce suffering and improve the quality of human life. 

As I sat on the floor not knowing what to do with myself while I awaited the inevitable forthcoming parting, I found the book in my hands. I thought to myself, maybe there’s something in here about dying that can provide some perspective and some comfort. I started reading where I had left off, and, upon turning the page, without one iota of hyperbole, I found myself staring at a chapter entitled: “Reflections on Death.”

Did I find it helpful? Maybe slightly. It was hard for anything to be helpful right now. I suppose I found some usefulness in his discussion of perspectives; how, in many cultures, where death is accepted as an integral part of life—there’s that “acceptance” word again—funerals can be a traditional affair, consisting of normal activities and a relaxed atmosphere. People in those cultures acknowledge that death happens and that it may or may not be the end of “us,” whoever or whatever we are. Contrast that to many Western methods of dealing with death—macabre, dark, quiet, gloomy prison cells where bodies are dressed up in denial to look like they did in life—and it makes sense that death would be so hard for someone like me who was raised in the United States. 

Richards also discussed the importance of grieving, noting that those who try to push it away or speed past it in order move on with their busy lives end up dealing with it later at some point, whether or not they want to. At least I am avoiding that problem. I am definitely grieving now.

—

I’m not entirely sure why I’m vomiting up these words, or if I’ll publish them. It’s good to express your feelings, I guess. Sigh. It feels fucking meaningless.

—

One thing that occurs to me as I wander around the house, getting up to stretch my legs after lying next to my dying dog, is just how little I care about the possessions I’ve accumulated through my life. How little the nicer fridge or the revamped flooring actually meant. There was a time in my life where I eschewed the modern this or that, and tried hard to avoid collecting “things.” But that was always partially motivated by the fact that I didn’t have disposable income. As I became an adult, and as I had some money to spare, I fell back into some of the modern traps of wanting wanting wanting, and I would occasionally start building up my list of possessions or improvements.. Every now and then I’d become disgusted with myself, and sell or give away a large percentage of what I had. 

I don’t have a particularly large amount of stuff right now, though, so the feelings to purge everything are likely connected to the loss of life, of a partner, that I am about to experience. Which I suppose makes sense. What do some little trinkets or some figure or some movie or piece of equipment matter. They almost always lead to spending time with objects over those that we love and care about. 

—

I don’t feel bad about the amount of time I spent with Balto, honestly. We did a lot together, and if I clung to her every minute of the day, then she wouldn’t even have liked it. That trait is one of the things that made her so special to me. So many dogs—and I do love dogs in general, to be clear—tend to be people-pleasers, coming immediately at every beck and call, doing just about anything for a treat and a pat on the head. And in some ways those types of dogs can seem devoid of personality. To me, at least. I’m sure that’s not the case for their partners. Probably.

But Balto was different. She marched to the beat of her own drum. She listened to my requests probably about 60% of the time. Well, I mean, I’m sure she heard them every time, but she only obeyed my requests maybe a bit more than half the time. If she was barking her head off at our neighbor dogs, and I asked her to come down, sometimes she would. But other times she’d look at me with a big smile on her face, wag her little butt and orange fox tail with it’s adorable little white tip, saying c’mon, join me, this is fun! Or saying I hear you, but…I’m going to continue doing this for now. And she’d go right back to it. 

I loved that about her so much. I want a partner with independence, one who charts her own path at times, but who still lovingly engages other times. She was such a good example of being your own entity—still willing and able and happy to help others and to bond, but secure in her own identity. She was her own dog. She was Balto. 

—

I never want to have the feeling of wishing that I had said or done something to or with someone once they are on their deathbed. Yet I can tell you that even as I don’t feel it’s necessarily appropriate for my situation here with Balto, I am having those thoughts. I wish I drove her in the car more (her favorite), I wish I chose to bring her with me on more trips when I instead prioritized my own convenience. I wish I had prepared her fancier dinners, bought nicer beds, petted her for longer. But these thoughts are unhelpful, they amount to equating life and love with nothing more than a checklist. My mind can come up with an endless tally of things that I could have done differently and/or better. And in this case, this is just my mind finding ways to make me suffer. I mean, I’d wish I had delivered the rarest food in a gold-plated dish with an orchestra playing soft classical music nearby, if I had done all of the more obvious things in the checklist. It’s amazing, the capacity of our minds to make us suffer. And our tendency to accept that suffering.

There’s no need to make a checklist of things you’d wish you’d done with someone at the time of their death. And in fact that could be harmful to do while they’re living, in that you’d regret not getting to some of them, or in that it might end up feeling like you’re just plugging away at a formula. Instead a lot of avoiding regret just comes down to making time for the people and animals that are important to you. It’s refreshingly simple, actually, if you think about it.

—

Balto rests near my side, sleeping most of the time. She seems peaceful. She doesn’t struggle or express pain. I’ve spent a lot of time around animals in distress, and I’ve euthanized hundreds that were terminally ill. I am closely watching her for suffering, but I am not seeing the normal signs that would push me to euthanize immediately. Even though I try to be objective, I cannot know if my opinion is true. I don’t want her to go. 

—

Balto’s little pink tongue sticks out of her mouth. She looks ridiculous, but as beautiful and, somehow, as dignified, as ever. That’s another quality of hers that stands out so tall; she was always dignified. When the other dogs tried to chow down on some rotting corpse they found on a walk, or eat some old disgusting dog shit, she would only smell and shake her head. What were those other dogs thinking, she’d say. She carried herself with pride, she held her head high as she trotted along, always a paragon of excellence, of royalty. I’ll never forget her gait, her inquisitiveness, her refined nature, her queenly nature. Stoic, that dog. 

—

I honestly feel the worst feeling that I’ve ever felt in my life. The opening part of this post was not hyperbole. Now you might think well you must not have had a lot of suffering in your life, and, well, I’m not going to try to convince you one way or the other that I have. It’s all relative. But I can say without a doubt that I’ve never experienced the depth of impending loss, of sadness, of love for another that will soon vanish forever, as I do right now. It feels like my core essence has become a hollowed out center, that my life force has been removed and nothing but a void of darkness exists in its place. I have an unwavering lump in the back of my throat. I’ve cried more in the past 24 hours than I have in the last ten years (and I am not one to shy away from crying). All I know is I love my dog, and I will miss her. 

—

I think of all the streaming services, all the conversations that are had about what shows are good, how you binged this show, or how this show was so shocking or intelligent or whatever. What a waste of time. Who’s going to give a shit about any of this down the road?

—

I know that my memories of the last 24 hours together with Balto will last a lifetime. I’ll never forget the lessons she taught me right up to the end, and I’ll never cease being grateful. She taught me how to be strong, how to have pride without being prideful, how to just be yourself, the rest of the world be damned. She taught me the joys of the simple pleasures, the delight of a new experience, the thrill of hanging your head out the window, the joy in being spontaneous, and even the comfort in establishing a (non-harmful) pattern. 

Of course the tragic part is that much of this came too late, once her death was so close and assured. I had wasted so much time. Or did I? I suppose I did develop a strong relationship with her, I did get to this point, so maybe it wasn’t all so bad. Maybe I didn’t screw this one up; maybe it’s just my ego jumping on the bandwagon to tell me that my actions weren’t good enough, that I didn’t spend enough time with her, that I didn’t do enough, just so I could feel the pain. Maybe my brain had simply decided that I deserved to suffer. It’s fitting that I oddly ended up listening to virtuoso guitarist Steve Vai talk about the ego and how we mistakenly identify with it, at the same time while sitting close to her during those final hours. So right for that moment in time. Just like that chapter on death.

For a brief moment I think about going to sleep, but I don’t want to close my eyes because then it will be morning and it will be time to say goodbye. I’ve cried every hour but it’s not been enough, not nearly enough. She’s sleeping now, so I stop my petting and leave her be in peace. I just sit there, in her presence, in awe of her presence, in gratitude and love of her presence. 

I’m so grateful that she got to walk around a tiny bit outside. That she woke up and took some jerky a few times today, so that at least she was able to have a bit of comfort in the midst of her struggle. And that she had been able to wander over to the water bowl. Such little joys, why couldn’t we take the joy in these things as they happened each and every day. Why did it all become a routine, something to complete so you could move on to…what, work the job, drink the beer, play the game? Whatever. I’m not going to let my ego jump in and ruin this, nope. I see you, ego. I am grateful for this time with Balto. I am grateful for all of the time we spent together. And though it feels like at this moment that I’d never want to get close to another animal again, lest I have to deal with watching that animal die one day, I still rest in comfort in knowing that, at least with this one, with my poor sweet Balto, it was worth enduring every nanosecond of heartache at the end, the excruciating depths of despair and hurt, to have this bond. I love you, Balto. And you’ll always be a part of me. I miss you so much, already. 

—

The vet was able to come out at 9am, and thankfully Balto had relaxed into a calm and quiet state at about 6am, so her time came and went as peacefully as it could have. We had spent the night outside as the air was pleasant, and a gentle breeze and blue skies shone overhead. I couldn’t wish for a better environment for someone to pass away, I guess. Of course it was traumatic—it was the worst pain I’ve had in my life. She wasn’t just a dog or a pet; she was spirit, she was alive. It is helpful to know that she is no longer in pain, that we did our best, that we gave each other a beautiful life together. She will always be a part of my life. Always. 

—

A Special Animal

Reflecting on this special dog named Balto, I’m reminded of her wonderful peculiarities. It’s nice to remember a few of them.

1. Her role as the 14-year old alpha in our house, as she commanded everyone and all knew to respect her.
2. Her twirling in circles on our bed, biting the bed sheets and demonstrating her superiority over anyone within shouting distance. How, if I came into the bedroom and saw all of the covers twisted and turned in knots and clumps from what was otherwise a neatly made bed, I knew exactly who had been up to what.
3. Her steady trot up the stairs in the backyard over to the corners of the fences to have a shouting match with neighbor dogs, making sure they knew that this was her house, her humans, always starting with a devilish smile on her face while she made the trek up. I knew what she was doing, she knew what she was doing. I’d usually let her go at it anyway. She had so much fun.
4. Her look of extreme pride after a “successful” scaring away of neighbor dogs, the way she was so obviously pleased with herself.
5. Her staring me dead in the eye, making at first subtle little grunting noises, then slightly louder grunting noises, then a little cough bark, then a bigger cough bark, then a sharp bark, until I paid attention to her or gave her what she wanted, which was usually a certain treat that she liked—only a certain one, though—all while giving me the biggest smile, with a slightly open mouth and teeth showing, as she wagged her tail progressively faster and faster. She loved this game. I did too.
6. Her pawing at me when she wanted something, reaching up a paw and just putting it right in my lap, staring me down, sometimes putting her cute black nose on my leg. It’s hard to convey how endearing this was. 
7. Her ability to have fun just barking at the air at random with a smile.
8. Her taking treats with the greatest of gentle care with her tiniest front teeth, and then throwing them on the ground, then staring down the other dogs daring them to contest her, then licking it, then playing with it, then looking up at me, then the dogs, then at me, then the dogs, then me…and then finally eating it, obviously pleased with herself. 
9. Her ability to have fun spinning in a circle trying to bite her tail, and then, on the rare occasion where she snagged it, looking surprised, like, what do I do now?
10. Her stubbornness to refuse all treats until she got offered the one she wanted.
11. Her whining, oh her whining in the mornings, in the afternoons, in the evenings, always just to let everyone know that she’s there. 
12. Her mad dashes to the couch with the greatest urgency to unleash a furious bark at the grandmother walking her tiny terrier on the sidewalk. It was her sidewalk, after all. How dare they. 
13. Her stubbornness on walks, the way she’d look the other way and stand firm until we went the way she wanted to go, and, like the treat begging, how she’d escalate behaviors until she got what she wanted.
14. Her stubbornness on walks to cover similar paths, to make sure we surveyed all the grounds so that the neighborhood was safe. And her look of incredulousness that I would do otherwise; didn’t I realize she had a job to do?
15. Her all-out running when we went to a field where she could be off leash, where she’d literally jump for joy. And sometimes shepherd the other dogs.
16. Her extreme timidness around other dogs, and her ridiculously cute awkwardness when it came to trying to interact with other dogs.
17. Her loner nature, the way she would go off and do her own things, whereas the other dogs wouldn’t leave me alone.
18. The way she listened to requests about half the time, enough to let me know that she respected me, but also enough to make sure that I respected her.
19. Her fussiness over food, her ability to manipulate me into preparing interesting wet foods or human foods for every meal. She deserved something special, obviously. And even then sometimes she just played with it.
20. Her playing with the food in her bowl while not eating it, just marking it for later, always starting with a look of intense concentration and purpose, but ending with a big goofy grin on her face.
21. Her digging, oh the fun she’d have digging dirt holes in the ground outside. Especially if it was in a clean and organized area. 
22. Her burning desire to stick her head out the car window (this was only allowed at slower speeds, of course). She loved car rides as much as anything. Just the words car ride were enough to get her insanely riled up, and she’d bounced off the walls until the door was opened and she could make a mad dash to the car. Her excitement, her eyes screaming c’mon, let’s go already! 
23. Her habit of running in from outside, looking me in the eye, bopping up and down the tiniest bit, and, if I made even the slightest movement toward the outside, turning around and bolting out. And if I didn’t immediately follow her, she’d race back in and stare me in the eye again, and repeat until I followed her…because she had something to show me, of course. She was always showing me things.
24. Her noises of ecstatic delight when I’d return home after being gone for a few days, unique and heartfelt sounds she only ever made in that exact scenario, as if to express both “where were you, how dare you go and leave me!” and “I’m more excited than you can imagine that you came back.” I never felt so loved.
25. Her absolutely gorgeous stature as a dog among dogs, as royalty deserving of admiration. And her magnificent smile. Other worldly, that dog. 
26. Her habit of looking back at me every few steps on a walk, to make sure I’m there and ok.
27. Her manner of constantly stirring up the other dogs and bringing excitement to the house. The way she commanded attention when entering a room.

—

The lessons I learned from Balto were many. She taught me the value of individuality, of forging your own path. Of being yourself, of not just following the crowd and doing what everyone else does. Of looking beautiful without trying, just because she knew that she was, not because of some external validation. Her ability to persevere when she wanted something. Her recognition that she didn’t need to eat food just because it was there. Her ability to enjoy the simple pleasures, like her fun dancing-in-a-circle game on the bed. 

She taught the simplicity of knowing the truth of life. She taught me that the things in life that matter aren’t the things, it’s the relationships you build, that life is what you make of it. She taught me that it’s ok to hide away and be by yourself sometimes. She taught me that it’s ok to be stubborn sometimes, that it’s ok to pout, to boast, to savor. She taught me that we don’t have to be perfect. Just yourself.

the aftermath

The house feels empty. Everything feels shallow, like there’s an indescribable emptiness that cannot be filled. Interactions with the other dogs feel hollow. Balto brought with her an incredible energy; as the alpha dog who continually trotted through the house, going back and forth from inside to outside, she was always stirring up trouble and the other dogs fed off her energy. Now the house feels bland, a colorful painting rendered in black and white, life decayed and absent. 

Everything reminds me of her. The beds she used to lay on. The human food she’d get for meals. The brush with her fur on it. The holes left undisturbed since her last digging episode. The places in the yard where she’d warn our intruding neighbor dogs to stay back. The steps in the back that she’d effortlessly glide up and down with a grace befitting of the most accomplished ballerina. The specially arranged feeding stations. The walks we take our other dogs on have become Balto paths, where I constantly see Balto interacting with the world around her, barking at this or that, defiantly planting her legs on the ground until her wishes were granted, the whining, the barking, the threatening ground tearing that she so gleefully engaged in. The dogs on our leash feel like a shadow of Balto’s elegant trotting, I see her in their gait. 

Sadness comes and goes. I try to distract myself with work, which works to a point. But I still have this awkward horrible feeling in my core throughout. Even on calls when asked how I am doing, I cannot bring myself to mention the reality; doing so would only depress everyone on the call and doing it half-assed would only disrespect her and the feelings I actually have. I feel alone without her. She was my partner, we looked at each other with love and affection. Without expectation, without conditions, just pure, unadulterated love.

I think about our origin story. She was just about to turn 8 years old in the shelter. She didn’t bond with me at first, she didn’t even want to look at me, let alone come over for treats. She was so shy and timid; I guess I can in some way understand why she was there for a full month without being adopted, despite being the prettiest dog of them all. It wasn’t until taking her for a test walk that I saw her shine in all her glory. Once we got outside she broke into a gleeful trot with her mouth bearing a big smile as she looked for trouble, and I immediately I knew that she was the one. My first dog, my partner in crime. 

She didn’t trust me at the start. She was regularly wary and cautious at all times. It was a full 18 months before she finally warmed up to me, and truly trusted me, and from that point on we were made for each other. Resistance on walks transitioned from an act of strict defiance into a game with each giving into the other at times. Eating treats and other foods became play as we navigated each other’s preferences. She mostly did her own thing but perhaps once a month or so she would come over and lay her paws on me, snuggle up, and rest her head on my lap. It was the infrequency of this that made it so, so special; our other dogs just needed a name call to come running. Building up our bond from its origins of hesitancy and tempered enthusiasm made the relationship all the more strong. From that point on we often looked at each other, exchanging knowing glances that were of all kinds; to laugh about something, to tempt about something, to stand firm on something, to be upset about something. Of course like everything else, sometimes she’d not respond at all; but again it was all of this combined that made her so special. She was a complex dog, she wasn’t an automaton. She was Balto. 

In the final six months, for whatever reason we developed a kinship behavior where she would walk over to me and, as I bent down to say hello, she’d butt her forehead right up against mine and hold it there. It was like a soft hug, a gentle touch that melted my heart each and every time. I can’t read this paragraph without my eyes tearing up.

The black hole in my chest is here to stay. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Was the saying true, was it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Of course it was. In the worst moments that sentiment can seem like bullshit, but to have such a deep affection for another, is a gift, is the greatest gift. And yeah, change. I decried that word being used to describe death earlier in this blog, but it’s true, change is the law of life. We suffer when we cling to things, when we strive to keep them just the way they are. But all of us age, all of us get sick, all of us die. All that is ours, beloved and pleasing, will become otherwise. So all there is to do in life is to offer love and compassion, unconditionally, and accept that heartache is part of the game, it’s what makes all the pleasant times taste all the more sweet. She will always be a part of me, and yes I feel sorrow, but I also feel gratitude. Immense, all-encompassing, gratitude.

At some point this blog also has to end. And like the countless times in my life where what I needed most appeared right before my eyes, if only I took a look, I read something that reinforced these sentiments about death right before I posted this blog. So, I’ll share it here. If you’ve read a lot of my posts, then you’ll not be surprised as I yet again quote Arnold Schwarzenegger. On the topic of death, he had this to say. A beautiful man, that Arnold, in more ways than one.

“One thing you learn as you get older is that none of us will get to live forever. It sucks. The older you get, the more death you see. Parents, siblings, friends, mentors. It can seem cruel that the reward for living a long life is outliving so many people that made your life what it is. But I’ve always found comfort in realizing that none of the people who die are gone. They’re with us every day. I once heard a pastor at a church say that they’re like ships sailing out of the harbor. Yes, at some point, as they get past the horizon, we can’t see them anymore. But that doesn’t mean they’re gone. I don’t think we ever lose the people who pass away. They stay with us every day, in our memories, but also in the way they shaped our lives.”

I’d echo his “they’ll be back” catchphrase in his trademark tone, but the truth is, they never left. Those we love live on in our hearts and minds, in the content of our character, and possibly in other ways that we can’t begin to imagine. Wherever you ended up after you passed from this life, Balto, know that you’ll always be my companion, and that my love for you will never fade. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for everything.