The basement was more than just a room—it was our escape, our little sanctuary from the rest of the world. Chooch claimed that space just as much as I did. He’d trot down those stairs like he owned the place, tail wagging and eyes sparkling with anticipation, ready to stake out his favorite spot on the couch. It didn’t matter what kind of day I’d had—seeing him there instantly made it better.
Chooch especially loved fight nights. He didn’t care about the names or the titles on the line; he just knew it meant snacks, excitement, and his human by his side. He’d always settle into his usual position—sprawled out on the floor, right in front of the TV, with his head lifted every time the crowd roared or the commentators got animated. He may not have known what a knockout was, but he felt the energy in the room. And when I jumped up in celebration or frustration, he’d jump too, barking as if he knew exactly what was going on.
This weekend’s UFC card is going to hit differently. The couch is going to feel emptier. The cold air in the basement won’t bring the same comfort. And when that first bell rings, I know I’ll glance down out of habit, expecting to see Choochie Boy’s goofy little face looking back up at me. But he won’t be there.
I’ve tried to prepare myself for moments like this—these quiet reminders of just how deeply our pets become a part of our routines, our traditions, and our hearts. But nothing really prepares you for the silence that fills a space that used to be filled with life. He was more than a dog—he was my shadow, my companion, and my biggest fan, even if he didn’t understand why people were punching each other on TV.
So, this weekend, I’ll still watch the fights. I’ll sit in our spot and try to honor that tradition we shared. Maybe I’ll even lay out a blanket and leave some treats where he used to sit, just to feel a little closer to him. Because no matter how many fight nights come and go, none of them will ever be quite the same without my Choochie Boy. ❤️
