Hi, I’m Remi. This is my journey as a support dog, where I’ve found true friendship with Izzy, 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 days after Pops left us felt different.
The weeks after Pops passed seemed to move both slowly and quickly at the same time. Every morning looked a little like the one before it, yet every day brought something new that reminded us our family had changed forever. Mom was hardly ever still. She divided her time between our house and Mama’s, trying to balance work, helping Mama adjust to living alone, meeting with family members, answering phone calls, and making arrangements for Pops’ funeral. I watched her leave in the morning and return long after the sun had begun to set. She tried her best to smile when she walked through the door, but I could see how tired she was. Even when she wasn’t saying anything, I knew she was carrying more than anyone should have to carry alone.
Dad quietly stepped into the spaces where Mom couldn’t be. He made dinner, took care of the house, and spent more time with me than ever before. Every morning he clipped my leash onto my collar, smiled down at me, and said, “Come on, partner. Let’s go clear our heads.”
Those morning walks quickly became my favorite part of the day.
We returned to the trails we had walked so many times before, the ones where tall trees shaded the paths and little streams whispered beside us. Sometimes we stopped at the pond where dozens of ducks floated peacefully across the water. I could sit there for what felt like hours watching them glide across the surface without a single worry in the world. Dad would sit on the bench beside me, neither of us in any hurry to leave. He often said Mother Nature has a way of reminding us that life keeps moving, even when our hearts wish it would stand still.
I didn’t always understand everything Dad said.
But I understood peace.
The breeze felt softer there.
The birds still sang.
The ducks still quacked.
The trees still reached toward the sky.
Life was still happening all around us.
Sometimes that was comforting.
Sometimes it hurt.
When we returned home each afternoon, I found myself spending more and more time sitting in the front window. At first, I thought I was waiting for something. Maybe I expected Pops’ truck to pull into the driveway, or maybe I thought one morning I would wake up and everything would feel the way it used to. After a while I realized I wasn’t really waiting for anyone.
I was waiting for the feeling to leave.
I was waiting for normal to come back.
The strange thing about grief is that you don’t notice how quiet it is until everything else becomes quiet too. I would watch cars pass by, children ride bicycles, neighbors mow their lawns, and families walk their dogs, wondering how the whole world could keep moving while ours had stopped.
One afternoon, while I sat by the window, I saw a familiar little figure hopping across the grass toward our yard.
“Izzy!”
Before I knew it, I was racing to the door.
The moment Mom opened it, I hurried outside, and Lilly came bounding toward me on her three strong legs, her tail wagging so hard her whole body swayed from side to side. She had lost her front leg long before I met her after being rescued from people who had treated her terribly. Most dogs would have let that define them.
Izzy never did.
She lived every day as though nothing had ever been taken from her.
We touched noses, wagged our tails, and then simply sat together beneath the big maple tree near the sidewalk.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
“I’ve missed you too.”
“You haven’t been around much.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
I looked down at the grass before answering.
“My Pops died.”
Izzy didn’t interrupt.
She simply waited.
“I don’t know why everything feels so different,” I finally admitted. “The house is the same. Mom and Dad are still there. My bed is still there. Even the backyard at Pops’ house is still there. But nothing feels right anymore.”
Izzy looked toward the street before speaking.
“That’s because you’re carrying a void.”
“I keep hearing that word.”
She smiled gently.
“I know.”
“What does it really mean?”
She thought for a long moment.
“A void isn’t something you can see,” she said. “It’s something you feel. It’s the space love leaves behind when someone important is no longer standing beside you.”
I looked at her.
“So how do you make it go away?”
“You don’t.”
I lowered my ears.
“You don’t?”
She shook her head.
“No, Remi. You don’t make it disappear.”
“Then what do you do?”
“You talk about it.”
I tilted my head.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“You let yourself feel sad. You tell your stories. You remember the good days. You cry if you need to. You laugh when a happy memory comes back. Feelings aren’t something we’re supposed to hide from.”
“I don’t like feeling sad.”
“Neither do I,” Lilly replied softly. “But pretending you’re not sad only makes the sadness stay longer.”
I thought about that.
“So I should talk about Pops?”
“You should talk about Pops as often as you need to.”
She smiled again.
“That’s how we understand our hearts.”
I wagged my tail.
“You know...”
“What?”
“I think you’re pretty smart.”
She laughed.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Over the next few weeks, Izzy and I spent more afternoons together than we had in months. We chased butterflies, watched squirrels argue in the trees, and stretched out in the grass while our moms talked with neighbors who often stopped by to check on Mom or ask how Mama was doing. Visitors began arriving from out of town as the funeral drew closer. Cars filled driveways, relatives hugged one another on front porches, and every conversation somehow found its way back to Pops.
The whole neighborhood seemed to understand our family needed a little extra kindness.
One evening, after another busy day of people coming and going, Izzy and I found ourselves sitting together beneath the maple tree as the sun slowly slipped behind the houses.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
We simply watched the sky change colors.
Finally, Izzy sighed.
“Remi...”
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t been feeling very good lately.”
I turned toward her.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t look sick.”
“I know.”
She stared quietly at the grass.
“I just don’t feel like myself.”
I stood up and walked closer.
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
She smiled the same calm smile she always wore.
“I’m probably just getting older.”
“But what if it’s something else?”
She gently bumped my shoulder with her nose.
“You worry too much.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
“Please promise me you’ll let your mom take you.”
She looked up at the stars beginning to appear overhead.
“I’ll be okay.”
Something inside me wanted to believe her.
After all, Izzy had overcome things much harder than this. She had survived pain, learned to run on three legs, and smiled through every challenge life had placed before her.
If anyone knew her own body...
It would be Izzy.
So I nodded.
“I guess you probably know.”
She smiled.
“I usually do.”
We sat there until our moms called us inside.
As we said goodnight, Lilly looked back at me one last time.
“Thanks for talking today.”
“Thank you for listening.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watched her hop across the yard toward her house, never imagining I had just watched her walk away for the very last time.
Sometimes life gives you no warning.
Sometimes the last goodbye doesn’t sound like goodbye at all.
Sometimes it sounds exactly like...
“See you tomorrow.”
🐾 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.
Chapter 11: Learning to Live Without Pops
·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.
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.
The care and love between good friends
never dies..it is recalled in every memory
and brings a quiet smile
Lilly's wisdom felt so real and true. I think talking about the people we love is one of the ways we keep them close. X