Never in a million years did I think that the last time I saw you walking away would be the final time I’d ever see your tail wag, your eyes light up, or hear your soft sighs as you curled up beside me. If I had known you were sick, Choochie boy, I would have given you everything—every snack, every belly rub, every ride in the car with the windows down. I wouldn’t have waited. I wouldn’t have said, “later” or “tomorrow.” I would have just said yes.
You were my best buddy. My silent therapist. You always knew when I needed you, even before I did. I’d talk to you about everything—things no one else knew—and you’d just sit there, eyes wide, ears tilted, like you understood every syllable. Maybe you did. You had a way of making me feel heard in a world that often feels too loud and too fast.
Our quiet moments meant everything to me. Sitting on the couch, walking down the street, even just sharing space together in a room. You didn’t need to speak, and neither did I. That connection—pure, unconditional, and unbreakable—was rare. And now that it’s gone, it feels like a part of me is missing.
I keep replaying it all. The day I dropped you off, thinking you’d be okay. Thinking we’d have more time. I didn’t say goodbye like it was the last time. I didn’t hold you long enough. I thought I’d be picking you up, and we’d be laughing and playing again.
I’m sorry, Choochie. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the signs. I hope you didn’t feel alone. I hope you felt loved, because you were—more than you could ever know.
You were the best dog ever. Truly. And I miss you so much it hurts. But I’ll carry your memory with me forever. Every walk, every nap, every late-night talk—we’ll still have those, in a different way.
I love you, buddy. Always. ❤️
