Hi, I’m Remi. This is my journey as a support dog, where I’ve found true friendship with Lilly, Gus, Trigger, my brother Colt, and many others along the way. My story is a heartwarming series about loyalty, love, and the bonds of family, told through a dog’s eyes to remind us all that life’s greatest adventures begin with an open heart.
The minutes passed. The hours grew longer. The days became filled with quiet moments of wondering, What if?
What if Pops had gone to the doctor sooner?
What if the treatments had worked?
What if we had one more afternoon in the backyard?
Those questions seemed to float through the house like leaves carried by the wind. Nobody said them very often, but somehow everyone felt them.
I was beginning to learn that grief isn’t always loud.
Sometimes grief is silent.
Sometimes it sits in an empty chair.
Sometimes it waits beside a favorite coffee mug that no one wants to move.
Sometimes it lives in a backyard where the grass still grows, the birds still sing, and the flowers still bloom, yet everything feels different because one person is missing.
It was the in-between that hurt the most.
Life hadn’t stopped.
The sun still came up every morning.
People still walked their dogs.
Cars still drove down the street.
Children still laughed somewhere in the neighborhood.
Yet inside our family, time felt like it had slowed down.
Nothing seemed to move the way it once had.
Mom spent more time at Mama’s house than she did at home.
Sometimes Dad stayed too.
Sometimes it was just Mom and me.
I stayed close beside her almost every moment.
Not because she asked me to.
Because I knew she needed me.
She would sit in Pops’ favorite chair for hours without saying much. Sometimes she held one of his old sweatshirts. Sometimes she looked out the kitchen window toward the backyard where Pops had spent so much of his life building gardens, fixing fences, grilling hamburgers, and laughing with everyone who came through the gate.
I would quietly climb onto the couch beside her and rest my head against her arm.
She never pushed me away.
Sometimes she wrapped both arms around me.
Sometimes she buried her face in my fur.
Sometimes tears rolled down onto my ears.
I didn’t know how to fix a broken heart.
I don’t think anyone does.
So I simply stayed.
Dad always says that being a support dog isn’t about having all the answers.
It’s about being present while someone searches for theirs.
As I lay beside Mom, I found myself thinking about another time my whole world had changed.
I remembered the day I left my real mom.
I remembered my brothers and sisters.
I remembered wondering if I would ever see them again.
Everything familiar disappeared in one afternoon.
I didn’t understand why.
I only knew my heart hurt.
I scratched at doors.
I cried during the night.
I followed Mom everywhere because I was afraid she would disappear too.
Dad never became angry with me.
Instead, he taught me something I didn’t understand at first.
“Love doesn’t disappear just because someone isn’t beside you,” he would say while scratching behind my ears.
“It stays with you.”
Back then I didn’t believe him.
I was too young.
Too scared.
Too busy trying to hold on to what I had lost.
But over time I learned something beautiful.
My first family had given me life.
My new family had given me purpose.
Both could be true.
Loving one didn’t mean I loved the other less.
My heart had simply grown larger.
Now, as I watched Mom trying to understand a world without Pops, I wondered if people had to learn the same lesson.
Maybe love never really leaves.
Maybe it simply changes where it lives.
One afternoon Mama sat beside Mom on the porch.
Neither of them talked much.
They simply watched the breeze move through the trees Pops had planted years ago.
I laid at their feet while the afternoon stretched into evening.
Finally Mama spoke.
“I keep expecting him to walk through that gate.”
Mom nodded.
“I know.”
“I still listen for his truck.”
“So do I.”
Then they both smiled.
Not because they were happy.
Because they had both been listening for the very same sound.
I realized something then.
Love creates habits.
Even after someone is gone, your heart keeps looking for them.
Later that evening I wandered into the backyard.
Colt was already lying beneath the big tree.
Gus rested nearby while Tigger lazily chewed on a stick.
Ozzy rolled onto his back with all four paws pointing toward the sky, completely unaware that anyone could ever be sad.
I smiled.
Only Ozzy could make the world feel lighter without even trying.
I walked over and lay beside Colt.
He looked at me for a long moment before speaking.
“You’ve been thinking again.”
“I can’t stop.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“I don’t like seeing Mom cry.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t like seeing Mama alone.”
“Neither do I.”
I stared toward the house.
“It feels different.”
Colt followed my eyes.
“It is different.”
I sighed.
“I wish everything could go back.”
Colt was quiet for a long time.
Then he looked at me.
“My dad used to tell me something.”
“What?”
“He said life doesn’t move backward.”
I lowered my ears.
“I know.”
“It moves forward.”
“But I don’t want it to.”
“Neither do I.”
We both watched the house.
After a while Gus spoke.
“I think people believe healing means forgetting.”
We all looked at him.
“But that’s not what healing is.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s remembering without breaking apart every time.”
Nobody answered.
Because somehow Gus had said exactly what we were all feeling.
Tigger stretched before adding, “The backyard is still here.”
“It is.”
“The tree is still here.”
“Yes.”
“The porch is still here.”
“Yes.”
“The memories are still here too.”
I looked around the yard.
Every corner held a story.
The place where Pops taught us to sit.
The grill where he dropped little pieces of hamburger when Mama wasn’t looking.
The chair where he watched sunsets.
The flower beds he proudly showed everyone who visited.
Nothing had changed.
Yet everything had.
Ozzy finally rolled back onto his feet.
“I don’t remember Pops being sad,” he said innocently.
“He wasn’t,” Colt answered.
“He laughed a lot.”
“He loved all of us.”
“He sure did,” Gus smiled.
Ozzy wagged his tail.
“Then maybe we should remember that part.”
We all looked at him.
Sometimes puppies say the wisest things because they don’t know they’re supposed to be complicated.
That evening, before we left, Mom walked through the backyard one last time.
She stopped beside Pops’ chair.
She rested her hand on the worn wooden armrest.
She smiled.
Then she cried.
Then she smiled again.
I leaned gently against her leg.
She looked down at me.
“You miss him too, don’t you?”
I looked into her eyes and softly wagged my tail.
She understood.
As we drove home, I watched the house disappear through the back window.
I realized something I hadn’t understood before.
When I left my first family, I thought love had ended.
It hadn’t.
It had simply found another place to grow.
Now Pops was gone from the backyard.
But somehow...
He was still in every lesson.
Every laugh.
Every flower.
Every barbecue.
Every hug.
Every story.
And every quiet evening when our family gathered together.
Maybe that’s what love really does.
It changes shape.
It leaves our eyes...
and finds a home in our hearts.
As I rested my head on my blanket and watched the stars begin to appear outside the window, I whispered something only I could hear.
“I still miss you, Pops... but I think you’re teaching me one last lesson.”
“Love doesn’t end when someone leaves.”
“It becomes part of who you are.”
🐾 Remi
Thank you for reading. This work is reader-supported, and your presence here matters.
🐾 Remi’s Journey is a heartwarming mini-series following Remi, a support dog, through friendship, family, adventure, love, and life’s lessons. One memory, one adventure, one wagging tail at a time.
Here’s last week’s story.
About the Author
The Positive Pen by John Rinaldo is a weekly publication centered on soul work, reflection, and the quiet process of becoming. Through honest writing and lived experience, he explores what it means to grow, endure, and find your voice.
He also hosts the live podcast The Positive Pen: Stories, Soul Work & Substack, where writers, authors, and artists share their journeys through meaningful, real conversations. The show airs every Monday at 4 PM EST.
John is currently working on Ciao Bella: Forgotten in the Shadows, a documentary project telling the story of Italian families who, during World War II, risked everything to help Jewish families escape to safety across the Alps.
Author’s Note: I have dyslexia and use assistive technologies, including AI-assisted editing, to improve grammar and readability. Every story reflects my lived experiences, voice, and final approval.
© 2026 John V. Rinaldo. All rights reserved.
This work is protected under U.S. and international copyright law. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, displayed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission. Official publications are released only through verified accounts directly controlled by John V. Rinaldo.
You have a way of writing with your heart as well as your pen/keyboard! Thanks so much! ✨
Love this, John.