Thunder Departed: On Love, Loss, and the Mystery of Perfect Timing

It's been five weeks since Thunder disappeared. A sentence I hoped I would never have to write, and it breaks my heart wide open again to see those words on paper.

After weeks of searching with no trace—no collar, no AirTag, no body, nothing—a different kind of understanding began to emerge through the grief. Thunder had disappeared the same way he'd arrived: like magic.

When the Universe Sends You What You Need Most

Sixteen years ago, I wasn't looking for a dog. I was barely looking after myself—drowning in depression, lost in a darkness so complete I couldn't see a way forward. I was a broken man stumbling through life without purpose, without hope, without any real reason to believe tomorrow would be different from today.

But the universe had other plans.

There he was on an adoption website—a mountain cur mix puppy in the exact city where I happened to be, the precise breed I'd been considering. It wasn't coincidence; it was destiny wearing the disguise of chance. One day he didn't exist in my world, and the next day he was mine. Completely, irrevocably mine.

From that first moment, there was no adjustment period, no getting-to-know-you phase. He was Thunder, and I was his human.

Forever.

No matter what.

He didn't just enter my life—he saved it. He became the light that pulled me from the darkness, the anchor that kept me tethered to hope when everything else felt meaningless.

For sixteen years, he saw me through everything—the depression that nearly consumed me, the searching for meaning in all the wrong places, the slow, painful process of rebuilding myself from the ground up. He was my constant companion through therapy sessions and sleepless nights, through cross-country moves and international adventures, through the gradual transformation from the broken man he'd found to someone who could finally stand in the light.

Thunder didn't just witness my healing—he was the catalyst for it. His unwavering presence taught me that love could be unconditional, that loyalty wasn't something you had to earn, that sometimes the most profound relationships require no words at all.

And then, at a time when I was finally thriving—emotionally stable, building something meaningful with DOGPAK, no longer the man who needed saving—he simply vanished. Back into the ether, as mysteriously as he'd emerged from it sixteen years before.

When the Mountains Spoke His Name

The very next day after his disappearance, Lauterbrunnen erupted in the most violent thunderstorms I'd ever witnessed here. For two weeks, the valley echoed with thunder so intense it felt personal. I was standing in Alpine Base when lightning struck the building itself, producing thunder so emphatic it seemed like the mountains themselves were speaking his name.

I wanted to yell up to the sky, "Ok, Thunder! We get it!"

I've always been a man of science, of practical analysis. I don't believe in the supernatural. But I can't ignore the poetry of his timing—both arrival and departure. Thunder appeared when I needed saving, and he left when his work was done. When I was strong enough to carry on without him. And in order to tribute the transformation he inspired in me, I know I need to remain strong in these heartbreaking times. I need to honor him by being the man he taught me to be. 

Maybe that's the real gift he gave me: not just companionship through the hard years, but the knowledge that I could survive his absence. That the man he helped me become was capable of standing on his own.

The Weight of Not Knowing

People ask how I'm coping, and the truth is complicated. The practical part of me—the part that planned routes through 32 countries, that calculated gear loads and border crossings—that part is tormented by not knowing exactly what happened. The not-knowing is its own kind of hell.

But there's another part of me, the part Thunder taught to trust in things beyond logic, that finds strange comfort in the mystery. He lived on his own terms for 16 years. Maybe he left on them too.

Thunder wasn't just a dog who happened to be mine. He was the single greatest thing that ever happened to me. For 16 years, he made me proud to be in his presence—not just as his companion, but as the human he chose. The one who got to raise him, protect him, adventure with him across continents and through the geography of my own healing.

He was medicine delivered at exactly the right dosage, for exactly the right duration. A gift from whatever forces govern the universe's sense of timing.

What Thunder Knew

That mangy little mutt always seemed to know something the rest of us didn't. He knows something we don't. He had this way of being completely present—whether we were hiking through Swiss valleys or sitting in some sketchy hotel room in Central America. He never worried about tomorrow or mourned yesterday. He just was. Fully and completely, in whatever moment we shared.

Maybe that's what he's teaching me now: how to be present with loss the same way he was present with life. How to hold love and grief in the same space without letting either one consume me.

A Promise to Remember

As I work through this grief, I've found myself compelled to capture every memory, every lesson, every moment of joy Thunder brought into my world. I'm writing a book—a memoir of our travels together—not just as a tribute to my best friend, but as a way to honor the profound impact he had on my life. A Promise to Thunder will be our story: the broken man and the mountain cur who saved each other, the miles we covered together, and the healing that happened along the way.

Every page I write feels like a conversation with him, a way to keep his spirit alive in the stories we shared. You can follow along with this project at promisetothunder.dogpak.com, where I'm documenting not just our adventures, but the deeper truth of what it means when a dog chooses you and changes everything.

The Legacy Lives On

The DOGPAK mission continues because Thunder's spirit is woven into every product, every story, every adventure we share with the community. He's not gone—he's just traveling in a different way now. Still my co-pilot, still my inspiration, still the reason I believe that the bond between human and dog is one of the most sacred things in this world.

Thunder was mine, and I was his.

Forever.

No matter what.

And that hasn't changed.

If you're struggling with the loss of your adventure companion, know that you're not alone. The bond we share with our dogs transcends the everyday—it's forged in shared miles, quiet moments, and the kind of trust that only comes from facing the world together. Thunder's story continues through every dog who gets to experience the freedom and joy of the great outdoors together with their owners.