Friday, April 3, was the first time I peed alone since April 11, 2019.

Biscuit came to me by chance. When 179 dogs were pulled from a hoarding situation, I said yes to fostering. A PAWS Atlanta worker who knew my other dog, Leonard, said, "I've got the perfect scruff for you." He was small and looked like a teddy bear. I took him home and planned for two weeks.

The next day, I got the call that my father was on life support. Biscuit, small enough at the time to disappear inside a bookbag, stayed beside me through one of the hardest moments of my life. He never left. Fully adopted. Forever.

PAWS Atlanta had called him Sherlock. When I took him home, I started calling him everything under the sun: Boris. Pad Thai. Chief. Bear. Bone. Shrimp. Oink. Devil. George. Willis. Simon. None of them stuck.

Our first meeting, April 11, 2019, at PAWS Atlanta.

I kept coming back to Bookbag, because from the moment I brought him home, he disappeared into my backpack, my Trader Joe's tote — any shopping bag I carried through the door became his. While I thought Bookbag was a name he could carry and thrive with, I heard much of the same: "Charlsie, you can't name a dog Bookbag."

Ok, fine.

But then the morning after my dad died, pulled off life support, a friend brought over breakfast. Flaky, warm, buttery biscuits. While choking one down, the first piece of food I'd had in days, I thought to myself, "Maybe he's a Biscuit?" Seconds later, he lunged at the bread like a feral cat who had been waiting his entire life for this moment. And that was when Biscuit Bookbag Bones officially had a name in this world.

Biscuit never made sense, not in the way most dogs do.

Reactive to nearly everyone, he spent his days hooting and hollering at anyone who dared to exist. He once climbed a stove and ate an entire plate of sugar cookies, defying gravity and all logistics, and never told us how. For a period in August 2019, he could relocate a full couch with all 16 lbs of his might through sheer conviction. For weeks, I thought it was either a poltergeist or him. I discovered it was him when I walked in the door and he was in couch moving stance. He hid his food inside shoes. His mouth was more industrial excavator than anything else — he lived to carry food and then hide it in the cracks of wherever he saw fit.

The first year I had him, he carried his full water bowl through the house constantly, the same way a suburban sorority girl refuses to leave the house without her hot pink limited edition Stanley. He smelled, always and entirely, like a spice rack. He hated Dalmatians with a focused, almost spiritual contempt, for reasons he never disclosed and possibly hadn't examined. I respected this. We all have our own version of Dalmatians, after all.

Biscuit ate cords like they were a food group. A blow dryer. A flat iron. A MacBook charger. He once ate my NARS blush palette. When I asked him if he did it, he shook his head and smiled, teeth pink with evidence. In 2019, he ate not one but two pairs of glasses because nothing tastes better than sweat-outlined plastic. He was a dog who, every single time I blow-dried my hair, walked into the bathroom and tapped his foot at me. Demanding. Impatient. Present.

Not many people knew this about Biscuit, but he had a hobby he took very seriously: interior design. Every day, in my closet, he rearranged his pillows, my clothes, my things. I could hear him in there, deliberate and focused. He had a vision—not a single day went by without Biscuit refining that creative work to bring his interior dreams to life.

Early days of Leonard and Biscuit learning how to be brothers.

He loved cheese. He loved stealing a slice of a sushi roll. He loved chicken, steak, and had a particular affinity for trout (especially if it came from Murphy’s). He loved staying in boutique hotels and riding in elevators. He loved being recognized on the Beltline from his Instagram account days: "Is that Biscuit Loves Atlanta?" But he was not much for signing autographs.

He loved joining me for baths, not in the water, but stationed on his hind legs at the edge of the tub, investigating the bubbles to confirm they weren't too high, then sitting with me the whole time, like a small, scruffy lifeguard.

Not a single day went by where Biscuit forgot to hug my legs. If only he never had to let go.

He loved the pool. He loved rolling in leaves. He loved barking at cars as though each one owed him money. He loved humping my mom's leg, he always rated it a 10/10 experience.

Speaking of his undying love for humping my mom’s leg, Biscuit’s relationship with her, his GranDi, was something maybe you only find in creative children’s books. Except it was very real.

Every day, he called her. Yes, really. He would hear her voice on the phone, and that was enough. He would look at her — in person, on screen, it didn't matter — with those enormous eyes and that ridiculously perfect nose, saying: “I love my GranDi.” His chaos and his sweetness existed in perfect balance when it came to her, and he used both shamelessly to wrap himself entirely around her finger.

His favorite Trader Joe’s tote bag to hide in.

For a dog who oscillated between fear and full reactive meltdown at anyone who dared exist within 100 feet of his backyard, his commitment to loving his GranDi was something close to extraordinary. Soft. Certain. Unwavering. Second only, just barely, to his commitment to loving, policing, and generally running my life.

As a child-free woman, by choice, my mom is Biscuit's GranDi in every sense that matters. And she is just as devastated as I am. He was hers, too.

In a world where corporate greed ruins everything, Biscuit was the one true creative and loyal partner I could count on. When I worked at home, Biscuit worked too: under my desk, on calls, in my lap. This is why I recently promoted him on LinkedIn to Director of Executive Recovery, a role he accepted without negotiation, executed without delegation, and yet still performed with more dignity than most people I have worked with in my entire career.

He slept above my head, on the left side, every single night, moving only when I moved—something Leonard would never dream of doing, because Leonard has philosophizing to attend to and squeaker symphonies to write.

The two of them together was something else. Two scruffy terriers with two drastically different dispositions.

Leonard was patient in the way that only a truly wise dog can be. When Biscuit first arrived—feral, wired wrong, not sure which end was up, Leonard showed him the ropes. Steadily. A great big brother in the truest sense.

What they built together over the years was something I got to witness every single day. They loved curling up together on the couch. They loved watching me cook dinner, side by side, wearing matching expressions of judgment. They loved sleeping on top of their crate together, tucked against each other as if they'd always done it.

Those eyes. That big button nose. He lived with wild hair or freshly groomed summer cuts. I ever knew which he preferred the most.

On our most lazy Sunday afternoons, they would climb into bed with me — books, journals, music playing softly — and each take their side. One on my left. One on my right. Both heads resting on my legs, eyes squinting gently in the light. The whole world, right there.

Biscuit also loved sniffing Leonard's mouth, carefully and thoroughly, to confirm that neither one had enjoyed a snack the other hadn't been offered. The audacity of a secret snack was not something either of them was willing to tolerate.

They were not always peaceful, though. Leaving that part out wouldn’t be right in this story of Biscuit Bookbag Bones and his mighty little life.

Biscuit was never the alpha, but he sometimes forgot that. There were incidents. Tussles and blood, occasionally. Once, he pushed Leonard far enough that Leonard looked at him and said, "You fuck around, you find out." At least that's what I thought he said when he went, "BAROO! BARRROO!" That was the night that Biscuit nearly lost an eye.

From then on, we became a no-bone house. I built systems, buffers, and contingency plans for every possible trigger. It was hard. It was sometimes scary. But I understood. Whatever came before me wasn't good for Biscuit, but we were both committed to undoing that trauma.

The day I officially adopted him, July 2019. He was a perfect “foster fail.”

The last incident was in 2024. And after that, something shifted.

I watched Biscuit exhale, really exhale, for what felt like the first time. He wasn't competing anymore. He was just home. It took longer than I wanted. But I am so glad I never gave up on him.

Only in the last two years did he finally learn to play. Six years of slowly becoming safe enough to be silly. It was the best thing I ever watched happen. Biscuit walking to the toy basket, sorting through it, picking a toy, and then carrying it up with him onto his bed or the couch felt like a victory, every single time. He loved his green monkey. And now I have his green monkey tucked next to me in the darkness of night as I miss my most loyal nighttime companion.

Grief has been a frequent visitor in my life. Growing up too fast. The eldest daughter, as we all know, is the first lamb to the slaughter. The grief of losing my father. The grief of deep abandonment from the grandmother I once believed was my moon, sun, and stars. The grief of going from being an older sister to an only child. The grief of the lives I thought I would live, and the reality of the one I do.

But even inside all of that, Biscuit was there. And my god, he was everything to me. I keep thinking about how lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye this hard.

He was my inner child in the most literal sense. The part of me that needed to be seen and loved and held exactly as I was, no performance required. Dancing with him in my arms was healing. His chaos permitted me to lean into my own. He constantly showed me that you don't have to be perfect to be loved. He was the smallest, scruffiest cheerleader I ever had, and he never once stopped showing up.

His love—that fierce, chosen, completely irrational love—sutured my heart back together in places I didn't know were broken.

I have a million Biscuit stories. Like the time he ran away wearing a diaper and I scaled a wall, like Spiderman if he failed gym class, filled with thorns to retrieve him stuck between a garage and thorn bush. He was completely unbothered, which honestly tracks. I emerged soaked in blood with thorns prodding out of my skin, but relieved he was back in my arms.

I don't know what Biscuit's early days looked like in that hoarder's house. I only know his wiring was off, and that both of us spent years slowly undoing whatever happened before me.

I always assumed I'd say goodbye to Leonard first. He turns 9 this year. Time really does slip through our fingers like quicksand.

But in a span of days, a UTI became a clotting crisis. He had blood pouring out of him. Not a dribble or a small stream. Pints. At the emergency vet, I learned he had nearly zero platelets in his body and that stemmed from immune-mediated thrombocytopenia. Biscuit needed plasma. There was none to be found. He just kept bleeding. If he lived, his life would never be the same.

It all happened so fast. Making the most humane choice — the right choice, the one that meant he wouldn't suffer — was the hardest thing I've ever done. I know he understood. He always knew I did everything for him. He knew.

Yes, Leonard is my soul dog. But Biscuit was something else — something that doesn't have a clean word for it. He needed me. The truth is, I needed him more. What he gave me wasn't unconditional love so much as chosen love. Fierce. Specific.

His. And only ever mine.

PAWS Atlanta gave me Leonard. And then they gave me Biscuit. I feel so honored to have been chosen for that role twice. They are a no-kill animal rescue shelter, and one of the most important places I have ever set foot in. The work they do is incredible. But the love they connected me to—that was a once-in-a-lifetime gift I have nothing but immense gratitude for.

This is how he lived his life. Near my shoulder, kissing my ear and face. My greatest companion.

Being Biscuit's mom was the greatest thing I have ever done.

I don't know where I go from here. I keep coming back to a Boygenius lyric: "I wish I was on a spaceship, just me and my dog and an impossible view. I dream about it. And I wake up falling." I would give anything to be with my boy, his spice rack scented terrier coat, and his big, beautiful eyes staring back up at me.

I don't know who will fill the spot on the pillow above my head each night. I don't know who will watch me in the bathtub, stationed at the edge like I might need saving. I don't know what it will feel like to walk Leonard without Biscuit challenging every car, every stranger, every Dalmatian who dared to exist.

All I know is that I loved that beautiful, scruffy man who knew how to love me wildly and big, every single day. How lucky I was to experience that.

Biscuit Bookbag Bones was bigger than the whole sky because he was my sky. My most ferocious protector. The messiest, wildest, nosiest, most bashful yet audaciously bold Biscuit.

Taylor Swift, who Biscuit logged a few thousand hours of listening to with me, captured this best in her song, “Bigger Than The Whole Sky.”

The best bed buddy. The greatest napper. The sweetest friend a woman could have ever asked for.

“No words appear before me in the aftermath, salt streams out my eyes and into my ears.
Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness, ‘Cause it's all over now, all out to sea.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. You were bigger than the whole sky. You were more than just a short time. And I've got a lot to pine about. I've got a lot to live without.”

There was never going to be enough time. There never is, with the ones who crack you open. But we had 6 years and 357 days together. Every single one of them his.

Biscuit, I love you. Forever and always. And then millions of years after that.

If you would like to make a donation to PAWS Atlanta in honor of Biscuit, you can do that here.

Bigger Than The Whole Sky: A Eulogy for Biscuit Bookbag Bones