Until We Meet Again, Gina

This is one of the hardest things I will ever write.

My heart is heavy as I write these words. The memories come back in waves, and sometimes they hit me like a tsunami.

But if I want you to understand Ginabella—truly understand it—I have to tell you about Gina.

And perhaps I have to start with Diva.

Before Gina, there was Diva

When I lost Diva in January 2011, I decided I would never have a dog again.

I had never experienced pain like that before. I thought I could never put myself through such a loss again.

But God had other plans.

In July 2011, Gina entered my life.

And to this day, I strongly believe that Diva sent her to me.

At the time, I was working in Austria. I was almost 40 and had already spent years building an international career in the fashion industry. I had worked in America, Austria and Hong Kong, with weekly trips into mainland China.

I had seen a lot. I had worked a lot.

And I was tired.

So I made a decision.

I left my well-paid job in Austria and moved back home to Switzerland with Gina.

I found another job almost immediately. We had a lovely apartment with a garden, and nearby there was a wonderful, professional dogsitter in the countryside outside Zurich.

Life was good.

Or at least, from the outside, it looked that way.

Inside, I knew I was exhausted by the fashion industry.

What I didn't know was that my international experience, my age and everything I had worked so hard to build would soon become part of one of the most difficult chapters of my life.

I lost count of how many times I became unemployed.

I would find a job, bring my experience and knowledge with me, and then, once that experience had served its purpose, I often found myself replaced by someone younger.

Eventually, I burned out.

And with the burnout came shame.

I withdrew from friends and family because I could no longer keep up with the life I had once lived.

But there was someone who never cared about any of that.

Gina.

Gina didn't care about my job title.

She didn't care how much money I made.

She didn't care whether I was successful or whether I felt like a failure.

She just stayed.

And one of the reasons I made it through that time was her.

Then Ginabella was born

Covid came, and eventually Ginabella was born.

We started dogsitting and selling products.

And Gina?

Gina was the alpha.

The manager.

The boss.

She controlled our furry clients with an authority that only Gina could have.

She was amazing.

Later, when Kylie had her babies, we had to change our concept. I began working night shifts in institutions caring for people with disabilities and people living with dementia.

At that time, I had twelve dogs.

I remember coming home in the morning after a night shift.

Gina would be the one waiting to greet me at the door.

The others would be in their rooms, sitting and waiting patiently until I called them to go outside and then eat.

Gina managed them all.

A whole pack.

In the beginning, I worried terribly when I left for my night shifts.

Eventually, the fear disappeared.

Before I left for work, we would all pray together.

Me and my dogs.

My family.

And somewhere during those nights, another dream began to grow inside me.

What if we could create a place where dogs could bring happy moments to people with disabilities and elderly people living with dementia?

Gina and Kylie were the first to come with me to the institutions.

And it worked.

Slowly, I introduced other members of the pack.

Not everybody qualified for the job.

Tony—also known as Tony Montana—and Rachel—also known as Rachel Welch—made it quite clear that this particular career path was not for them.

And that was okay.

Everyone had their role.

Eventually, I decided to look for a farmhouse where this dream could grow.

And I found one.

The owner was an elderly lady with health problems who had recently lost her husband. She asked me to move in quickly because she wanted to spend time with the dogs.

She fell in love with the pack.

Suddenly, she wasn't so alone anymore.

We decided we would develop the project little by little and that eventually I would buy the farmhouse.

I even told her she could stay.

Then I found an investor who believed in the idea and wanted to help.

For a moment, everything seemed to be falling into place.

Life was good again.

Until it wasn't.

When we began working through the paperwork for the purchase, the owner discovered that her husband had left enormous debts behind.

She hadn't known.

The debts were greater than the value of the farmhouse itself.

The investor pulled out.

The elderly lady was devastated.

And so was I.

The dream we had been building suddenly disappeared.

Then, in October 2024, Gina became sick.

At almost the same time, everything around me seemed to collapse.

I was practically unemployed except for a few night shifts. The project could not continue. The bank was putting pressure on the owner to leave the farmhouse.

I had ten dogs depending on me.

And Gina wasn't well.

I was scared.

But none of those problems mattered anymore when Gina became sicker.

Each time I took her to the veterinarian, the medication helped.

Until one day it didn't.

December 29

On the morning of December 29, we went to the vet because Gina was having trouble breathing.

When we came home, she seemed a little better.

I put her comfortably in bed, with Kylie, Jimmy and Sophia beside her.

Then I went outside for our usual ball-playing routine with Brandon, Bella, Brigitte, Sony, Tony and Rachel.

It was around noon.

The sun was shining.

The snow looked like an ocean covered in diamonds.

And something felt strange.

While I threw the ball, the dogs kept looking toward the window.

Toward Gina.

She was lying there close to the window with Kylie beside her, and the others behind them.

When we finished playing, I brought everybody inside and went upstairs.

I looked at Gina.

“Gina, baby… why are you sleeping like that? That can't be comfortable.”

I took her into my arms.

She looked at me.

And then my Gina took her last breath.

Kylie was beside her.

Then the dogs began to howl.

Not bark.

Howl.

Like wolves.

Something inside me collapsed.

There is no better word for it.

I remember the scene in The Godfather Part III when Al Pacino's character loses his daughter. He opens his mouth to scream, but at first no sound comes out.

That is what grief felt like.

I cried.

I screamed.

But I couldn't hear anything.

Everything disappeared.

It was Sunday, so Gina stayed home with us until Monday evening, when we had our appointment at the crematorium.

Her soul was already in heaven.

But her body was still with us.

And somehow, having her there meant I didn't yet fully understand that she was gone.

When we drove to the crematorium, Kylie lay in the back with Gina.

Jimmy and Sophia watched both Gina and Mama Kylie.

I drove.

And because Gina was still in the car with us, part of me still didn't understand.

Then we arrived.

A gentleman came to take Gina.

I remember his hands moving toward the table to carry her away.

And suddenly I understood.

I wasn't going to see her again.

I fell to the floor crying.

He stopped and gently pushed Gina back toward me.

I went to her one more time.

“Ciao, Gina.”

And everything went silent.

Run, Gina, run

We drove home without her.

That was when the emptiness became real.

We took the mountain road home.

Everything was covered in snow.

And then something happened that I cannot explain—and I don't need to explain it.

I saw Gina.

I saw her running across that snowy mountain.

Free.

I screamed as loudly as I could:

“RUN, GINA! RUN!”

And I believe she did.

One door closed. Another opened.

A few days later, on January 3, a dear friend called me.

She is retired, over seventy, incredibly fit and has one of the biggest hearts I know. Years earlier, she had helped me care for Gina and Kylie while I was working at my last job before Covid and before creating Ginabella.

She told me:

“At the end of February, we'll pack some suitcases, take our furry family and go to France. I need to take care of my parents and their house. We can breathe there. We can think about what comes next.”

And once again, I felt that perhaps Gina, together with Diva, had opened a door from somewhere above.

We drove to France in two big cars.

Nine dogs.

A few suitcases.

And a very broken heart.

The dogs had the time of their lives.

There was a huge garden.

For the first time in a long time, I could breathe.

I thought I would finally be able to think clearly about what came next.

Instead, that was when the real grieving began.

I became physically sick.

For two weeks, I could barely speak.

I still don't know how to explain that kind of pain.

Maybe there are some kinds of grief for which language simply isn't enough.

Even today, when I pray or meditate, I think of Gina.

And I cry.

Now you know

Our dream of helping animals wasn't born yesterday.

It had been living inside us for a long time.

Perhaps we simply weren't ready before.

Perhaps I wasn't ready.

But now you know where the name Ginabella comes from.

And now you know why we do what we do.

I have written this before, and I will keep saying it:

My dogs saved me when everyone else left.

They didn't care whether I was successful.

They didn't care whether I had money.

They didn't care about my failures.

They stayed.

And Gina stayed through some of the hardest chapters of my life.

She was my dog.

My alpha.

My manager.

My protector.

My partner.

My family.

And my friend.

Gina, I miss you more than words can say.

Our bond did not end on December 29.

I believe you are still protecting us. Still guiding us. And I believe Diva is beside you—my first love, because without Diva, perhaps there would never have been Gina.

And without Gina, there would never have been Ginabella.

So when people ask why we are doing this—why we care so deeply about dogs who have been abandoned, forgotten or left behind—this is part of the answer.

Because I know what it means to be saved by a dog.

And maybe now it is our turn to save some of them.

Until we meet again, my Gina.

Keep running.

Run through those mountains.

Run through the snow.

Run where nothing hurts anymore.

Run, Gina, run.

I love you.

Always.