Mostly Fine Life

Somewhere after the heaviest part of grief, life doesn’t so much resume as… reappear.
Not with fanfare. More like with flies (seriously, these little winged freeloaders have opinions). And a puppy who hasn’t yet worked out the relationship between feelings and bladder control.

Enter Milo.

Milo is small, ambitious, and biologically expressive. He’s a delightfully nutty little gremlin, and I love him to bits … even when he is happy, anxious, overwhelmed, excited, or simply existing and his body insists on making musical contributions. There has been pee. There has been poo. There has been… a lot of both (sorry, carpets).

I try to keep the house clean. I really do. But between three cats, two dogs, and a puppy treating every day like an experimental workshop, entropy is winning more often than not. The carpets have been cleaned. They will be cleaned again. And the flies? Well, here in New Zealand, flies are basically part of the summer landscape. They hover like tiny, judgemental, winged spectators—part performance art, part unsolicited audience—because warm weather, rain, pets, and chaos is basically their natural habitat. Not a reflection on me, just biology doing its thing (and yes, I see you, fly #3, judging the sock pile).

And yet… I laugh.

Mum would have laughed too. We would have rolled our eyes together, muttered something about what we’d signed up for, and then watched Milo as if he were conducting a very serious experiment in chaos management (I swear he writes little imaginary memos to the other pets).

We all miss Mum … so so much. Milo is helping us negotiate that—reminding us that life can still be joyful, absurd, and full of love, even when the ache is still there … and it is … it’s like its own character. Not that the other pets—Abbie, Thomas, George, and little Cilla—aren’t helpful (they have been amazing), but Milo has added something we all needed: a freaky little daily spark that keeps our hearts open to surprises and moments of “um, what the?”. He’s given something a little cute and a little absurd to all of us.

Abbie, usually a dignified older dog, has rediscovered her own puppy side. Milo and little Cilla have become besties, racing and snuggling together like old friends. George and Thomas, the more reserved members of the household, observe, chastise, and quietly accept that a new sibling has arrived to disrupt the routines they thought they owned. I love them all. They have been my constant and very loyal companions.

Lately, Milo has taken up a few new hobbies:

Puppy redecorating / Objet de Jour: He drags all sorts of things into piles, steps back, and surveys his work with the seriousness of a tiny interior designer. “Ta-dah! Objet de Jour 1.” Today’s masterpiece featured socks, laundry, and one missing slipper (I’m not sure if I’m proud or horrified). The cats provided silent critique. I laughed, because Mum would have applauded the effort.

8pm zoomies: He races through the house like it’s the Indy 500. Furniture weaving, squeaky toy chases, tail-wagging maneuvers, and the occasional dramatic flop. The finish line is wherever he decides—sometimes under a couch, sometimes in a triumphant pile of laundry (I’m just holding my breath and hoping no glassware was harmed).

Treat jar negotiations: Milo has discovered the exact location of the treat jar and the precise set of puppy eyes required to persuade me—and Abbie—to grant him a chew. Strategy, patience, charm. He’s a tiny mastermind.

Grief doesn’t end. It changes texture. One day it is heavy and consuming. Another day it sits beside you while you mop a floor and think, this is ridiculous, and also, this is life.

Milo will grow out of this phase. The flies will eventually lose interest. The carpets will recover. And somewhere in all of that, so will I.

For now, we are all doing our best.
Some of us are just doing it more… expressively than others.

And as I count Milo’s accidents, admire his “Objet de Jour” creations, laugh at his zoomies, and negotiate with his treat‑time diplomacy, I also find myself eyeing a different kind of chaos: spreadsheets. Budgets. Planning. The next stage in life’s “organised but still terrifying” adventure.

Because after biological expression comes financial expression. And if I survive Milo’s feelings, I can survive anything. We have a lot to figure out …

And right now? Milo is snoozing in his freshly washed bed now, tail flicking occasionally, clearly dreaming of his next lap around the living room racetrack. And I adore every bit of him.

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Soundtrack this week: Better Together — Jack Johnson 🎶

Because some chaos, some cuddles, and some laughter really are better together.