Letters of Love: To My Mom and My Pugbug (Max)
- Mickey Miller
- Sep 21, 2025
- 4 min read
This week is always heavy on my heart. Tomorrow, September 22, my mom would have turned 79. Just two days later, on the 24th, it will be one year since I lost my sweet Pugbug, Max. Both of them were pieces of my heart, and both shaped me in ways I can never fully explain. I wanted to write them each a letter, to honor them and keep their love alive through my words.
Dear Mom
Tomorrow you would have been 79. This is the third year I don’t get to leave you a little note saying “Happy Birthday, Mom,” or tell you in person. Three years of not having you here hurts more than I can put into words. I keep picturing what that birthday would look like if you were here, a cake, which you loved but weren’t supposed to have, coffee, you telling me not to fuss while secretly loving every minute of it.
When I was little, I was shy and I clung to you. You were my safe place. I remember you brushing my hair, and those small, ordinary things made the world feel right. I remember riding in the car while you turned the radio up — “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” when I was really young, Elvis, Neil Diamond, your disco favorites, and of course, your love of psychedelic rock. I get my love for music from you, Mom. You instilled it in me at a young age, your love for so many different genres, and that passion has stayed with me my whole life. Music is a piece of you that lives in me.
I remember being a teenager and you taking us to Jamie’s on 7 to see Chubby Checker and Herman’s Hermits. You told me the story of you as a teenager in California, how you were driving with your stepmom and accidentally hit the rear end of Herman’s Hermits’ car, and how they got out saying “American Women,” later remembering it when we saw them live. You worked at Jamie’s, and I loved going there, even if I had to stay seated because it was a bar and I was underage. I got to watch the bands, and my love for music grew because of you. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I love music so much, because it reminds me of you, blaring your music loud just as I do to this day.
You and Dad would go out dancing with Aunt Jody and Uncle Gary, and you loved it so much. You always told me you had once dreamed of being a dancer, and I loved how that dream always lived in your heart.
You told me stories from your life growing up, and those stories became part of who I am. When I came home from elementary school (I was in 6th grade) crying because kids were mean about my clothes or my hair, you were the one who told me not to listen, to hold on, because one day I’d grow up and those bullys would no longer matter and would not be a part of my life. You were right.
You were the cool mom when I was a teenager, but also the worried one — tough, protective, loving with your whole heart. As I became an adult, you were more than my mom, you were my best friend. You helped me raise my four kids and loved them all so much.
When I look at my kids, I see you in all four of them, your love, your strength, your humor, your heart. That part of you lives on in them, and in me. You were the strongest woman I’ve ever known, and you showed me what it means to give, to fight, to love even when things weren’t easy. In so many ways, I see myself in you. You always opened your home to our friends, and you were always giving, whether it was food, a place to stay, or just love and laughter. I’ve carried that with me, Mom. I try to live that way too. That part of you lives on in me.
Part of me is glad you’re not here to see how divided our country has become. I mean, you lived through so much growing up in the 50s and 60s, but seeing it now would devastate and scare you. And yet, part of me wishes you were here to tell me everything will be okay, to remind me that even in the chaos, love, kindness, and family are what matter most.
Mom, I miss you every single day. On your birthday, I like to imagine you dancing again, with your dad, your brother, and your mom. I imagine Pugbug right there too, waddling around your feet, making you laugh. I hope heaven is filled with music and dancing, because that’s where you belong.
Happy Birthday, Mom. You’ll always be my safe place, my heart, and my best friend.
Love,
Mickey
Dear Pugbug (Max)
You were my baby. Mom bought you for Roo, my youngest, at the Trout Festival when you were just a little pup, but you became my dog. From that moment on, you were my shadow, my comfort, my joy. You were also my last tie to Mom, and when you left it felt like losing another piece of her too.
I miss your goofy little sounds, the way you followed me from room to room, the way you made even the hardest days feel a little softer. The way you would look at me and go crazy lol. You gave me more love than I could ever put into words.
I’ll love you forever, Pugbug. Thank you for every wag, every snore, every moment.
This week is heavy, but it’s also full of love. Grief is love with nowhere to go, and so I’m giving it words — remembering the music, the stories, the laughter, the love.
I picture them together now, Mom dancing, music swirling around her, Pugbug snorting and circling her feet and that’s the image I want to carry with me.
I love you both forever and always, until I see you on the otherside.
Mickey
Lead with Peace, Love and Loud Music always!
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