On January 4th, 2026, my family member, our dog Niko, passed away. He died peacefully in his sleep at the age of eighteen. Niko lived a long, beautiful life, filled with love from friends and family, and yet his absence has been overwhelming. It’s been difficult to wake up each day without him greeting me. Part of that pain comes from the simple truth that he’s been in my life for more than half of it.

He was there through the awkward middle school years, the rebellious teenage phase, college, and the loneliness and uncertainty of my twenties. I often wonder what he thought of me as I moved through those chapters, especially during my twenties, when self-doubt crept in, and I struggled to understand myself. Sometimes I think he may have known me better than I knew myself.

Through all those changes, one thing never wavered: his love for me.

In the days since his passing, it’s been hard to make sense of the emotions I’m feeling. There’s guilt, sadness, love, appreciation, and a deep sense of emptiness. Grief always brings a flood of emotions when we lose someone we love, but this feels different. I’ve found myself asking why it feels different than losing other relatives. As I sit with that question, I realize it’s because it is different - both emotionally and symbolically.

Emotionally, I’ve been trying to understand how one can feel such profound love for a dog. On the surface, he was an animal - one that didn’t speak our language. Yet, that barrier never mattered. We found our own ways to communicate. Whether it was his bark at the empty bowl to let us know he needed water, his quiet wait by the door to be let outside, or my favorite - barking at me from across the room until I picked him up and placed him beside me on the couch - it was proof, again and again, that love doesn’t require words.

Those moments left such a deep imprint on me that sometimes, for a fleeting second, I swear I see him lying in his bed by the fireplace, just as he always did. I’ll catch myself turning toward the space where he used to be, half-expecting him to look back at me. I don’t know if that’s simply grief playing tricks on the mind, or if it’s something else - the quiet residue of a love so strong that it is telling me he is looking after me. 

As I revisit these memories, I can’t help but feel deeply blessed, not just for the joy and love he brought to my life, but also for what he gave to my family and everyone who knew him. Still, the gift of that relationship came with its own kind of pain. The final six months of his life were especially hard. He was battling both old age and kidney disease, and we did everything we could to keep him comfortable and present, even when others - veterinarians included - suggested otherwise. During that time, as a round-the-clock caretaker, I stopped thinking of him as “just a dog.” He was family. And in his quiet way, he seemed to be fighting just as hard as we were - holding on, delaying Death’s arrival for as long as love would allow. I believe my family felt this, too.

It’s difficult to comprehend how such a small creature could play such a pivotal role in our lives, leaving each of us, whether we realize it yet or not, with lessons that will stay with us for years to come. We’ve all heard the phrase man’s best friend and stories about the bond between humans and dogs. But it’s only through experiencing it that the meaning becomes clear. A dog offers joy, loyalty, and unconditional love, asking for so little in return - just affection... and food.  

So when I hear people say, “It’s just a dog,” I can’t help but shake my head, because they must not have known what it’s like to experience such a bond. They’ve never been given that particular gift - the kind of love that God, in His generosity, allows us to experience through an animal. For a bond like that, I can’t help but wonder what debt we owe God for allowing us to experience such love at all. 

Niko’s absence didn’t arrive alone. It came with a quiet sense that something else was shifting too. Symbolically, Niko’s death came at a moment of transition in my own life. I had just turned thirty. It’s hard not to connect the closing of my twenties with his passing, especially with only days separating the two. Part of me feels as though a chapter - an entire era - has quietly come to an end. One rooted deeply in my younger self, but also in a time when my family felt fuller, lighter, and more whole. There was also a sense of stability in him - a quiet constant that no longer exists. In a world that so often feels unpredictable and unsettled, Niko was something we could rely on. His presence brought a small but steady sense of normalcy to our home, a grounding force for my family and me that made everything else feel just a little more manageable.

I don’t yet know what this next chapter will look like. I only know it begins without him. Yet despite that uncertainty, I will never forget Niko, to do so would be impossible.

Without him, I would never have known what it means to love an animal so deeply. Without him, I don’t think I would see animals as the conscious, feeling beings they are - creatures capable of fear, joy, loyalty, and connection just as we are. And without Niko, I don’t believe I would feel the same responsibility to make the world a kinder place for them.

So I end this essay here. Thank you, Niko, for everything - for your love, your patience, and for making me a better person. I love you and I hope to see you again.

On January 4th, 2026, my family member, our dog Niko, passed away. He died peacefully in his sleep at the age of eighteen. Niko lived a long, beautiful life, filled with love from friends and family, and yet his absence has been overwhelming. It’s been difficult to wake up each day without him greeting me. Part of that pain comes from the simple truth that he’s been in my life for more than half of it.

He was there through the awkward middle school years, the rebellious teenage phase, college, and the loneliness and uncertainty of my twenties. I often wonder what he thought of me as I moved through those chapters, especially during my twenties, when self-doubt crept in, and I struggled to understand myself. Sometimes I think he may have known me better than I knew myself.

Through all those changes, one thing never wavered: his love for me.

In the days since his passing, it’s been hard to make sense of the emotions I’m feeling. There’s guilt, sadness, love, appreciation, and a deep sense of emptiness. Grief always brings a flood of emotions when we lose someone we love, but this feels different. I’ve found myself asking why it feels different than losing other relatives. As I sit with that question, I realize it’s because it is different - both emotionally and symbolically.

Emotionally, I’ve been trying to understand how one can feel such profound love for a dog. On the surface, he was an animal - one that didn’t speak our language. Yet, that barrier never mattered. We found our own ways to communicate. Whether it was his bark at the empty bowl to let us know he needed water, his quiet wait by the door to be let outside, or my favorite - barking at me from across the room until I picked him up and placed him beside me on the couch - it was proof, again and again, that love doesn’t require words.

Those moments left such a deep imprint on me that sometimes, for a fleeting second, I swear I see him lying in his bed by the fireplace, just as he always did. I’ll catch myself turning toward the space where he used to be, half-expecting him to look back at me. I don’t know if that’s simply grief playing tricks on the mind, or if it’s something else - the quiet residue of a love so strong that it is telling me he is looking after me. 

As I revisit these memories, I can’t help but feel deeply blessed, not just for the joy and love he brought to my life, but also for what he gave to my family and everyone who knew him. Still, the gift of that relationship came with its own kind of pain. The final six months of his life were especially hard. He was battling both old age and kidney disease, and we did everything we could to keep him comfortable and present, even when others - veterinarians included - suggested otherwise. During that time, as a round-the-clock caretaker, I stopped thinking of him as “just a dog.” He was family. And in his quiet way, he seemed to be fighting just as hard as we were - holding on, delaying Death’s arrival for as long as love would allow. I believe my family felt this, too.

It’s difficult to comprehend how such a small creature could play such a pivotal role in our lives, leaving each of us, whether we realize it yet or not, with lessons that will stay with us for years to come. We’ve all heard the phrase man’s best friend and stories about the bond between humans and dogs. But it’s only through experiencing it that the meaning becomes clear. A dog offers joy, loyalty, and unconditional love, asking for so little in return - just affection... and food.  

So when I hear people say, “It’s just a dog,” I can’t help but shake my head, because they must not have known what it’s like to experience such a bond. They’ve never been given that particular gift - the kind of love that God, in His generosity, allows us to experience through an animal. For a bond like that, I can’t help but wonder what debt we owe God for allowing us to experience such love at all. 

Niko’s absence didn’t arrive alone. It came with a quiet sense that something else was shifting too. Symbolically, Niko’s death came at a moment of transition in my own life. I had just turned thirty. It’s hard not to connect the closing of my twenties with his passing, especially with only days separating the two. Part of me feels as though a chapter - an entire era - has quietly come to an end. One rooted deeply in my younger self, but also in a time when my family felt fuller, lighter, and more whole. There was also a sense of stability in him - a quiet constant that no longer exists. In a world that so often feels unpredictable and unsettled, Niko was something we could rely on. His presence brought a small but steady sense of normalcy to our home, a grounding force for my family and me that made everything else feel just a little more manageable.

I don’t yet know what this next chapter will look like. I only know it begins without him. Yet despite that uncertainty, I will never forget Niko, to do so would be impossible.

Without him, I would never have known what it means to love an animal so deeply. Without him, I don’t think I would see animals as the conscious, feeling beings they are - creatures capable of fear, joy, loyalty, and connection just as we are. And without Niko, I don’t believe I would feel the same responsibility to make the world a kinder place for them.

So I end this essay here. Thank you, Niko, for everything - for your love, your patience, and for making me a better person. I love you and I hope to see you again.