Twix—five months and one day

It’s incredibly hard to write this article. At the same time, I feel like I have to get it off my chest somehow. Maybe it will help me come to terms with what has happened over the last few days.

Twix was born on May 4, 2026—right here at our house.

In no time at all, he was simply “my baby” to me.

He had this incredibly beautiful, silky, shiny coat. And this incredibly sweet look in his eyes. And he had this way of getting so happy whenever I came home—wagging his tail in the yard or in the living room, as if my return were the best thing that could happen that day.

We gave him the nickname “Vin Piesel” because, until recently, he simply couldn’t control his bladder at all.

And just recently, he got his first canine tooth. We were so proud. Our little guy is slowly growing up.

I never would have thought we’d have him with us for such a short time.

The First Signs

Twix was always a little quieter than the others. He often kept to himself, away from the hustle and bustle.

In July, he and his brother Lindt had injuries—specifically, hematomas. Lindt had a hematoma on his neck, and Twix had problems with his leg. That’s why the two of them moved from the Puppy Kennel to our house.

Twix never moved back into the puppy kennel after that.

He just moved in with us.

And he became Ida’s best friend. The two of them could play together for hours.

Twix was also a bit of a klutz. Of course, we didn’t know back then what was wrong with him. Sometimes he would suddenly start limping or have a small bruise. Naturally, we took him to the vet because of this, but even there, they initially assumed he was just a little clumsy.

Things got more serious in September.

Twix started bleeding heavily from his mouth and later vomited blood as well.

A shock.

We took him to the vet right away—as you might expect, during emergency hours, of course.

I spoke at length with the attending veterinarian there and also told her about the unusual symptoms in his brothers, Duplo and Lindt. I’ll write about them separately at a later time.

The veterinarian already had her suspicions, but wanted to find out more. We were even exchanging messages as late as 11:30 p.m.

In short: The bleeding was caused by teething.

What wouldn’t have been a big deal for a normal puppy turned into a problem for Twix. He couldn’t stop the bleeding on his own, swallowed all the blood, and then threw it up again.

Fortunately, the veterinarian was able to stop the bleeding with medication.

Suddenly, there was suspicion of a blood clotting disorder.

We began looking into hemophilia. A medical examination to assess the condition was scheduled.

At that point, I was still hoping that—if they really were affected—the disease would at least not be very severe.

That would have meant the end of a life as a sled dog. But as a household pet, a dog with a bleeding disorder can certainly live a normal life, depending on the severity of the condition.

I thought we had time.

I was so naive.

Early October

In early October, everything changed.

I had the opportunity to travel to Kiruna, Sweden, for the Sled Dog Symposium, and I was incredibly excited about it.

We’d just come through a very intense period, and the trip was also meant to be a bit of a break for me. At the same time, of course, it was a chance for professional development: lectures by veterinarians, physical therapists, and musher on all things related to sled dogs. A lot of information that will ultimately benefit our dogs.

At first, it wasn’t clear at all whether I would be able to drive.

Then Antti told me to just go and that he would take care of everything here.

Some friends from Finland offered to give me a ride starting from Ylitornio. That meant I wouldn’t have to drive the entire eleven hours by myself, but only about seven.

So it was clear: I could actually go.

I was incredibly happy.

At the time, I didn’t know that my little family would fall apart in the coming days.

The day before the symposium, Twix had another minor bleed related to teething.

We’d seen this happen with him before, so just to be on the safe side, I took him back to the vet for a checkup. After all, I wanted to make sure everything was okay before I left.

I set off at 5:30 a.m. on Friday morning.

In my usual way, I gave all my dogs and cats one last cuddle and set off.

Saturday, October 3, 2026

On Saturday morning, Twix suddenly developed severe swelling under his tongue.

A large hematoma had formed.

The tissue was bleeding.

It wasn’t clear why.

Antti immediately arranged for an emergency veterinarian and drove with him to Lieksa.

Twix was given medication to help with blood clotting, painkillers, and IV fluids. He was anesthetized, and the hematoma on his tongue was suctioned out.

After that, Antti was allowed to take him home again.

Twix was given Hemosilate, a hemostatic medication, every six hours.

Even so, the bleeding didn’t really stop.

We spent the night on the phone.

We talked on the phone for hours, texted each other, and tried to figure out what to do.

We also contacted the emergency clinic in Kuopio. They told us that Twix was stable at the moment and that we should bring him directly to Kuopio the next morning. 

I looked up train schedules and taxis to see if I could find a way back.

In the end, I rejected it.

We planned to head home on Sunday right after the symposium. Twix was supposed to go to the clinic first thing in the morning anyway.

They would definitely help him there.

You can probably imagine how I—or rather, we—felt that night.

Twix made it through the night.

Sunday, October 4, 2026

The next morning, Antti drove straight to Kuopio with him.

Once at the hospital, it quickly became clear that something was very wrong.

It became increasingly clear that Twix was suffering from a severe blood-clotting disorder.

The tongue and the area beneath it were severely swollen. Blood had pooled in the tissue, even though there was no injury that could explain why a five-month-old puppy was bleeding so heavily.

The hematoma was punctured again.

But it came back.

And suddenly, it was no longer a matter of figuring out at some point exactly what type of bleeding disorder he had.

The only question left was whether we could save him.

At 6:00 p.m., Twix was transferred from Kuopio to Helsinki.

I was already on my way home from Sweden.

There was no suitable blood supply available in Kuopio.

He was able to receive a blood transfusion in Helsinki.

It was supposed to help him.

Of course, we said yes.

Antti took Twix and drove from Kuopio to Helsinki as fast as he could.

At a time like this, you cling to anything.

Around 10 p.m., the two arrived at the clinic. The emergency veterinarian was already waiting.

At the same time, I, too, was on my way home from the symposium.

Actually, the plan had been for me to spend one more night in Ylitornio.

I couldn’t.

I headed home right away.

Emotionally completely drained, having barely slept, and facing another seven-hour drive back to Eräkeskus.

Meanwhile, Twix received a blood transfusion in Helsinki and continued to receive treatment.

The veterinarian said she would get in touch with us the next morning.

When I finally got home, I let Ida and Zeno out into the yard.

And then Ida did something she never usually does.

She ran all over the garden, looking for something.

She checked inside the huts.

She even looked under the house.

On and on.

I’m sure she was looking for a Twix.

After all, he was her best friend. The two of them had almost always been together.

And suddenly, he was just gone.

I stood there watching her, and I couldn’t tell her where he was.

I didn’t even know myself if he would ever come home again.

Monday, October 5, 2026

First thing in the morning, we received a message that gave us hope.

Twix’s condition had improved.

He sat upright and was attentive.

The bleeding had stopped.

The big problem was still the severe swelling of his tongue. Because of this, he couldn’t eat or drink.

The veterinarian explained that they could try to aspirate the hematoma again. Thanks to the blood transfusion and the medication, there was hope that there wouldn’t be as much secondary bleeding this time.

If the swelling doesn’t go down, Twix would need a feeding tube.

But even that was complicated. In cases of severe blood clotting disorders, simply inserting such a tube can trigger life-threatening bleeding.

The veterinarian therefore wanted to consult with the surgical team.

Later, she called again.

A feeding tube was out of the question. The risk of uncontrollable bleeding was too great.

We agreed that they should try once more to aspirate the hematoma on the tongue.

If that didn’t work, there was only one decision left to make.

But he was feeling better, after all.

He was sitting upright.

He was a little fighter.

Maybe he would come home after all.

Maybe.

In my absurd hope, I even made his little bed up fresh again.

About an hour later, my phone rang again.

I was hoping for some good news.

They didn’t come.

The veterinarian told me that Twix’s condition had taken a drastic turn for the worse.

He was apathetic and very, very tired.

They had tested his blood again.

The blood transfusion didn’t have the effect we had hoped for.

She couldn’t puncture the tongue because there was a high probability that it would start bleeding heavily again.

And even if we had somehow miraculously survived this crisis—no one could have said when the next one would come.

A jolt.

A small cut.

A lost baby tooth.

A scuffle with another dog.

Something that would have been completely harmless for any other young dog could have been life-threatening for Twix once again.

I also asked the vet if we could bring Twix home so he could walk here with us.

But she made it very clear that that was no longer possible. She said she couldn’t keep him pain-free enough for the long drive home, and it would only mean more suffering for Twix.

So this wish, too, remained just a wish.

As much as I wanted him back home—at that moment, it couldn’t be about what I wanted anymore, but only about Twix.

We had to make a decision that I never wanted to make.

It was the last decision I made for him.

And I didn’t make that decision against him, but for him.

No more suffering for my little guy.

And at the same time, it was a decision against myself.

Because where his pain ended, mine was just really beginning.

On October 5, 2026, at 3:37 p.m., Twix was euthanized in Helsinki.

I wasn’t with him

That’s probably the thing I struggle with the most.

I really wanted to be with him.

I was looking for train routes from Lieksa or Joensuu to Helsinki.

There wasn’t a connection that would have allowed me to arrive on time.

I couldn’t go to him.

Luckily, Antti was with him.

And we made a video call.

I could see Twix.

I spoke with him.

When I said his name, his eyes flew open and he reacted to my voice.

My heart skipped a beat.

I told him that everything would be all right.

That he’ll soon be free of pain.

That I’m sorry I can’t be with him.

And that I love him.

Antti stroked him.

He was with him.

But it wasn’t me.

And that’s exactly what’s tearing me apart.

That I couldn’t pet him myself.

That I couldn’t hold him in my arms on his final and most difficult journey.

Something inside me broke.

And the tears just wouldn’t stop.

Afterwards

Antti returned from Helsinki around 11 p.m.

He put his arm around me, and we cried together.

Long.

Antti almost never cries.

We’ve been together for seven years, and up until then, I had only seen him cry once.

The pain was indescribable.

And at the same time, none of it felt real at all.

Parts of it still don’t feel real.

I’m working.

I’m taking care of my to-do list.

I’m functioning.

Sometimes I’m doing something, and for a few minutes it seems like my mind is working just fine.

And then it happens again.

If it weren’t for my puffy eyes, an outsider probably wouldn’t even notice most of the time that something is wrong with me.

Sometimes I want to talk about him.

And at the same time, I really don’t want to talk about it at all.

The worst part is coming home.

For a split second, my mind still expects him to be there.

That I see him in the garden.

The fact that he’s wagging his tail.

That he’s happy.

And then, every time, that one thought comes back:

He’s not here; he’ll never be here again.

And every time, it hurts all over again.

“I just want him to be back.”

That’s probably the sentence that best describes it all.

I don’t want an explanation.

No statistics.

There is no reasonable justification for why this decision was the right one.

I just want him back.

I want to touch his silky fur.

I want to see him wagging his tail in the garden.

I want to get annoyed when he does something stupid.

I want to see him grow up.

I want to know what he would have looked like when he was one year old.

When I was five.

When I was ten.

All these things were taken from us.

It’s not just Twix that has died.

With him gone, all those years have vanished too—years I had taken for granted, thinking we still had them ahead of us together.

The Question of Hemophilia

It was no longer possible to perform a definitive factor diagnosis on Twix.

However, based on the overall clinical picture, his veterinarians considered hemophilia to be very likely.

There were the recurring episodes of lameness.

The small hematomas.

Heavy bleeding during tooth replacement.

The severe bleeding under the tongue.

Anemia.

The blood test results.

And the persistent bleeding.

His brothers, Duplo and Lindt, have also shown suspicious symptoms.

Lindt should therefore be the first to undergo a more detailed investigation.

Our location here in Lieksa makes things a bit tricky, because the samples have to be sent to Laboklin in Germany for the specialized tests. Our veterinarian is currently figuring out how to ensure the samples are shipped safely.

We’d also like to know if Duplo is affected and, if so, to what extent.

Unfortunately, we’ll never get that answer from Twix.

However, the treating veterinarians were very certain that hemophilia was the cause, and I’m sure that Twix was the most severely affected of the three brothers.

Hemophilia is inherited through the X chromosome. For this reason, male dogs are primarily affected, while female dogs can carry the gene without exhibiting the same symptoms themselves.

Given the abnormalities observed in three male puppies from this litter, there is therefore a very strong suspicion that their mother is a carrier.

As soon as we have the relevant test results, we will, of course, take appropriate action regarding future breeding.

Because one thing is certain:

We won’t risk passing something like that on.

We never want any puppy to go through what Twix had to go through.

And to be honest:

We never want to go through something like that again ourselves.

I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Not even to my worst enemy.

Five months and one day

Five months and one day.

That’s ridiculously little time.

And yet, during that time, Twix meant everything to me.

He regularly put a smile on my face.

He was part of our everyday life.

Part of our pack.

Part of our plans.

And a huge part of my heart.

Right now, all I know is that I miss him.

There’s just this huge hole in my chest.

And then there are those moments when I can’t believe what happened.

Moments when I truly believe I’m about to see him again.

When I come home and automatically look to where he should be.

When I walk from the lodge toward the house and garden and he isn’t there.

Wagging its tail.

With that expectant look in his eyes.

Twix was born on May 4, 2026.

On October 5, 2026, we had to let him go.

Five months and one day.

But apparently, five months are enough for a small dog to leave a void that can never be filled.

Take care, little guy.

My heart is in pieces.

They say grief is love that has nowhere else to go.

I’m grieving him so deeply.

And I would have loved him for so much longer.

What remains without Twix?

Our other dogs are a small source of comfort.

They’re forcing us to get up.

To keep going.

They need to be taken care of.

They need us.

But things have gotten quieter at home.

Everything seems a little grayer.

The tears always come whenever I see something that reminds me of him.

His little bed.

His food.

His bowl.

His leash.

His nameplate at the entrance to our home.

His collar.

And the spot on our couch that’s empty now.

Everywhere, there are these little signs that he was there.

And at the same time, he’s no longer here.

We haven’t been able to put his things away yet.

Everything’s way too fresh for that.

And now, along with the grief, there’s also fear.

Concerns about Duplo and Lindt.

Both have already shown signs of abnormalities, and we don’t yet know what the test results will show.

Ever since what happened with Twix, I suddenly see things differently when it comes to those two.

Every limp.

Any slight swelling.

In the past, I probably would have just observed things first. Now, that thought pops into my head right away:

Please don’t.

Please, not again.

I know that Twix was apparently hit particularly hard and that things might not turn out the same way for Duplo and Lindt.

But that fear is still there.

The fear of having to face such a decision again.

The fear of losing yet another one of them this way.

And right now, I don’t know how to just get rid of this fear.

Twix wasn’t the first dog I had to let go. And anyone who has lost a dog knows how empty you feel afterward. How much it hurts. And how hard it is to just get back to a normal routine.

We had Twix cremated.

He’ll be back home in about two weeks.

I’m waiting for him.

It feels strange to write this, because of course I know that it’s not my Twix that’s coming home.

Not the way I want him back.

But then at least a part of him will be back here with us.

Right where he belongs.

Until then, his little bed will still be there.

His things are still there.

And he’s missing everywhere.

I don’t know when this will start to hurt less.

Right now, all I know is that I miss him so much.