remembering willy loman

Willy Loman was the cutest corgi. He flew into Omaha in 2012 as a little rascal, full of life from the moment he arrived. He carried so much love in his small body, and yet he was always gentle and sweet. In all the years we had him, I never once heard him growl. He was a natural companion to our other corgi, Tommie Girl, and the two of them fit together easily, as if they had always known each other.

My daughter Sam named him after the main character in Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller, though Willy could not have been more different from his namesake. He was joy and light, uncomplicated and present, happy simply to be where we were.

For the first few months, Willy didn’t bark at all. Then one day, he discovered his voice—and once he did, he never stopped using it. Instead of jumping on people when he was excited, he barked. He barked for treats, for breakfast, for dinner. He barked when we came home, at cars passing by, at people walking down the street, and especially at delivery drivers. It always looked like protection, but really it was his way of greeting the world: Hey! How are you? I’m Willy. Do you have any treats?

Treats mattered to Willy, and so did the people who provided them. His favorite was our neighbor Vic, who kept dog treats in his car and always had a Milk-Bone ready. In Willy’s later years, when his walks grew shorter, we would walk just to Vic’s house and hope he was outside. Often, he was.

Willy was technically my daughter’s dog, but he came to visit so often that when she finished pharmacy school, he simply stayed. He had made his decision. Sam might disagree—to her chagrin—but she could see how happy he was, especially with Tommie. In the end, she knew his heart had settled where he felt most at home.

Willy loved to play ball until he tore a ligament and needed surgery. After that, ball time slowed, but his love for being outside never faded. He still enjoyed walks, sitting in the yard, watching the world go by, and barking his commentary. He loved chasing squirrels, or at least reminding them that he was watching.

He was a true horse show dog. When we went to horse shows, Willy came too. As a puppy, he tried to eat just about anything he could find—including horse poop. Thankfully, that phase passed.

What Willy loved most was simply being near us. He lounged on the steps, watching through the window, keeping an eye on the squirrels who seemed to taunt him on purpose. He slept with us and loved visits to Jessica, his groomer, who always had the best treats waiting.

He adored my husband Jay, mostly because Jay always slipped him people food. If Jay was eating, Willy was right there—hopeful, patient, and certain his moment would come.

Stuffed toys were another favorite. Willy’s mission was always the same: locate the squeaker and remove it. If the squeaker was difficult to reach, the toy might survive fifteen minutes instead of five.

In his later years, Willy became a quiet fixture in my online yoga classes. He never missed one, always nearby, always present. This week, when I had to carry him up to class, I knew he wasn’t feeling well.

He struggled with an infection for about two weeks, growing weaker each day. Our family is heartbroken. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier, and missing something essential.

Willy was with us for nearly fourteen years. His birthday would have been February 11, just two months away. He lived a full life—happy, compliant, loving, and open to every dog and human who crossed his path.

We miss him deeply. Jellybean misses him too. She loved him so completely that when he stopped eating at the end, she stopped eating as well, staying close, offering her presence in the only way she could.

We will miss you, dear Willy—your bark, your joy, your insistence on treats, and your need to be wherever we were. We know you are running freely now, light and unburdened, reunited with Tommie, chasing squirrels and playing ball once again.