I still hear the jingle of his collar sometimes. In the quiet hours of the morning or as the sun begins to set, I find myself turning my head, expecting to see that familiar wagging tail and those wise, gentle eyes looking up at me. I’d give anything—truly anything—to have one more walk around the neighborhood with King Chooch.
He wasn’t just my dog; he was my shadow, my therapist, my best friend. Our daily walks were more than just a routine—they were sacred. Every day, no matter the weather, Chooch would wait by the door, tail thumping, eyes gleaming, ready to explore the world beside me. There was a rhythm to those walks. He always led the way, nose to the ground, as if reading an invisible map made of scents and memories. He knew every crack in the sidewalk, every friendly face, and every tree that required his royal inspection.
Neighbors adored him. They called him “King Chooch” because he carried himself with such quiet dignity. He didn’t bark much. He didn’t need to. His presence was commanding, yet comforting. Kids would run up to him, and he’d sit still, soaking in their affection with calm patience. Elderly folks on porches would smile when they saw him coming, often stopping us for a chat and a pet. Chooch made everyone feel seen, known, and loved.
Now, those same paths feel empty. I still walk them, mostly out of habit and grief. But it’s not the same. There’s no excited bark when I grab the leash, no gentle nudge at my hand when I pause too long by a corner. The silence is loud. My heart aches for just one more stroll—one more chance to talk to him like he understood every word, one more moment to see him basking in the sun, content just to be by my side.
I’d give anything to relive one of those walks. To laugh again as he chased a butterfly. To hear his panting next to me as the breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers. But more than anything, I want to feel that bond again—that quiet understanding only a dog like Chooch could give.
Rest easy, my King. You’ll always walk beside me, even if no one else can see you.
