It always started the same way — I’d stretch, yawn, maybe mutter something like, “Alright, bedtime,” and before the words were even fully out, Chooch was off like a rocket. Tail high, paws scrambling across the hardwood floor, that goofy little grin on his face. Every night, without fail, we had a race to the bedroom. And every night, that four-legged rascal beat me by a hair. Even when I tried to cheat and get a head start, he somehow knew. He’d bound past me at the last second, triumphant, then flop proudly onto the bed like the king he knew he was.
Tonight, she won the battle — our new pup finally made it to the bedroom before me, just once. She looked so pleased, tail wagging, tongue lolling out, looking back at me like, “Did you see that?! I did it!” And I smiled. Genuinely. Because in that moment, I felt joy. But it was tangled with something heavier. A bittersweet ache in my chest that reminded me… this isn’t his victory. This isn’t our race. That was Chooch’s thing. And I miss it — I miss him — so damn much.
Chooch didn’t just race me to the bedroom. He raced me to the kitchen, to the couch, to the car. He was always right there — my shadow, my buddy, my co-pilot in everything. And now that he’s gone, every corner of the house feels a little slower, a little quieter, a little emptier.
The new pup, bless her heart, is trying her best. She’s not here to replace him — no one ever could — but she’s finding her own ways to fill little pieces of the hole he left behind. She’s goofy and fast and full of mischief. And yeah, tonight she won a race. But the war — the aching, the longing, the part of me that still waits for the sound of his paws thundering down the hallway — that’s far from over.
I miss our races, Chooch. I miss everything. But thank you for teaching me that love like yours doesn’t really end. It just shifts, echoes, and leaves little trails behind for others to follow.
