There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about King Chooch. He wasn’t just a dog—he was a soul who understood mine. Our talks weren’t just one-sided; somehow, he always responded in a way that made me feel heard. I’d talk to him about life, about my stress, about the little wins and the big worries. He’d tilt his head, wag his tail, or just rest his chin on my knee like, “I get it.”
Losing Chooch left a silence in the house I didn’t know how to fill. It wasn’t just quiet—it was empty. I’d catch myself turning to speak, only to remember he wasn’t lying by my side. But life has a strange way of continuing. And in that quiet, CiCi stepped up.
CiCi was always the softer one—more reserved, more watchful. But after Chooch passed, something in her shifted. She started following me more closely, lying at my feet during my low moments, nudging me when I’d sit too long staring out the window. She didn’t try to replace Chooch—she couldn’t—but she quietly began to heal the hole he left.
She’s become my shadow, my comfort, and, in her own way, my therapist. She doesn’t bark much, but her eyes say everything. When I talk to her now, she listens just like Chooch did. And sometimes, I think she carries a piece of him in her. Maybe he passed it on—his loyalty, his calm, his way of just being there.
Some days I still cry for Chooch. Other days, I laugh remembering his goofy grin and stubborn ways. But every day, CiCi reminds me that love doesn’t end when someone leaves—it shifts, it grows, it finds new shapes.
People always say, “You saved that dog.” But when I look back at what Chooch gave me, and what CiCi gives me now, I have to wonder—who really saved who?
The answer is both. We saved each other, again and again. Through grief, through growth, through quiet mornings and long walks. And we’ll keep saving each other, one day at a time.
