Chapter 7: The Phone Call That Changed Everything

The day I finally understood what I had been feeling all along.

Hi, I’m Remi, and this is my journey as a support dog. Along the way, I’ve made wonderful friends like Lizzy, Gus, Trigger, and my brother Colt, as well as many new companions on new adventures. My story is a heartwarming tale of loyalty, love, and family, told through a dog’s eyes, reminding readers that life’s greatest adventures begin with an open heart.

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The Phone Call…

We had such a wonderful day on the Chesapeake Bay that I honestly thought it would never end. The sun sat high above the water, warming everything it touched, and the gentle rocking of the sailboat made it feel like the whole world had slowed down just for us. Mom and Dad were laughing with their friends, people were swimming and riding jet skis, and I spent most of the afternoon stretched out beneath the shaded part of the boat where the breeze carried the smell of saltwater and summer across my nose. Even Rai and Leelo, the two cats who somehow believed they owned the entire boat, had made the day more interesting than I expected.

Life felt simple.

Life felt good.

But even then, there was a feeling I couldn’t quite shake.

It had been following me for weeks.

Maybe longer.

A feeling that something was different.

Not wrong exactly.

Just different.

Dogs notice things.

We notice changes in routines.

Changes in voices.

Changes in the way people move.

Sometimes we notice things before anyone says them out loud.

I had noticed Pops slowing down.

I had noticed the tiredness in his eyes.

I had noticed the way Mom and Dad exchanged glances when they thought nobody was looking.

I didn’t understand what any of it meant.

I only knew that something felt different.

The phone rang late in the afternoon as everyone was beginning to settle down after a day on the water. I remember lifting my head when Mom answered it. At first nothing seemed unusual. She listened quietly. Then her face changed.

The smile disappeared.

The laughter left her eyes.

Dad looked over immediately because he noticed it too.

The conversation wasn’t long, but it felt important. Mom listened more than she spoke. Dad stood quietly nearby waiting. The mood on the boat shifted in a way I couldn’t explain.

It was as if everyone suddenly felt the same thing I had been feeling.

That something was different.

I didn’t understand every word.

I only understood one thing.

Whatever had been hiding beneath the surface was finally beginning to show itself.

The ride home felt different from every other ride home I could remember. Usually I would stand with my front paws against the window, watching the world fly past while Mom and Dad talked about their day. Sometimes music played. Sometimes they laughed about something that happened.

Not this time.

Mom stared quietly out the passenger window.

Dad kept both hands on the steering wheel.

Nobody said much.

I curled up in my bed in the back seat and watched the sun slowly disappear behind the trees. The sky turned orange, then pink, then purple.

Normally I loved watching sunsets.

This one felt heavy.

That evening I followed Mom through the house as she moved from room to room. She made phone calls. She asked questions. She listened carefully. Every time she hung up, she seemed more concerned than before.

The conversation was about Pops.

Of course it was.

Even I knew that.

Suddenly all those little things I had noticed started fitting together.

The extra naps.

The slower walks.

The tired smiles.

The moments when Pops seemed distracted even when everyone else was having fun.

For weeks I had sensed something changing.

Now I was beginning to understand why.

But Pops was Pops.

A Marine.

A bodybuilder.

A man who believed hard work could solve almost anything.

If something hurt, he pushed through it.

If something felt wrong, he ignored it.

If life knocked him down, he stood back up.

That was how he had always lived.

Maybe that was why everyone loved him.

Maybe that was also why everyone worried.

The next few days felt strange. Mom and Dad continued living life, but there was something else moving underneath everything.

It was there during breakfast.

It was there during dinner.

It was there during walks.

It was there when the house became quiet at night.

Worry.

I knew that feeling now.

Not because anyone explained it to me.

Because I could feel it everywhere.

Humans carry worry differently than dogs do.

Dogs live mostly in the moment.

Humans visit the future.

They imagine what might happen.

Sometimes they imagine things they cannot control.

Sometimes those thoughts become heavier than reality itself.

Finally, after much discussion, persuasion, and frustration, Pops agreed to go to the hospital.

I remember the morning clearly.

Mom moved through the house gathering her things while Dad helped her get ready. Their movements were quick and focused. Nobody seemed relaxed. Nobody seemed comfortable.

I followed them everywhere.

Into the kitchen.

Into the bedroom.

Back into the hallway.

Wherever they went, I went.

Finally Mom stopped, knelt beside me, and wrapped her arms around my neck.

“I’ll be back, Remi,” she whispered.

I licked her face.

I wanted to go with her.

I wanted to sit beside Pops.

I wanted to help somehow.

Because by then I knew something important was happening.

The feeling I had carried for weeks wasn’t my imagination.

Something really was different.

Instead, I stayed home with Dad.

And so we waited.

Waiting may be one of the hardest things humans do.

I think it is hard for dogs too.

Dad sat in his chair checking his phone every few minutes. Sometimes he would send a text. Sometimes he would read a message and stare at the screen for a while before setting it down.

I stayed beside him the entire day.

Not because I had to.

Because it felt right.

Support dogs learn something important.

Sometimes helping isn’t about doing.

Sometimes helping is about being.

Being present.

Being nearby.

Being a reminder that no matter what happens, someone is sitting beside you.

The house felt unusually quiet. The television wasn’t on. Music wasn’t playing. Even the sounds outside seemed distant.

Hours passed.

Tests were being run.

Doctors were asking questions.

Mom was sitting beside Pops.

And Dad and I waited.

Every time the phone buzzed, Dad picked it up immediately.

Every message mattered.

Every update mattered.

Every answer mattered.

As the day went on, I found myself thinking about Pops.

I thought about the backyard he built.

I thought about birthdays.

I thought about family barbecues.

I thought about Colt, and then Gus, Tigger, and now Ozzy.

I thought about running through the grass while everyone laughed around us.

I thought about the day I became a support dog and how proud everyone had been.

Those memories suddenly felt different.

Not because they had changed.

Because I had.

For the first time, I realized something I had never thought about before.

I had always believed those days would continue forever.

I had always assumed Pops would be sitting in that backyard.

I had always assumed there would be another birthday.

Another barbecue.

Another summer.

Another sunny afternoon.

Maybe that is how life works.

Maybe we have to believe those things will always be there because otherwise we would spend too much time worrying about losing them.

But eventually life teaches us something else.

Nothing stays exactly the same.

Seasons change.

People age.

Puppies grow up.

Children become adults.

The moments we love most eventually become memories.

Not because life is cruel.

Because life keeps moving.

As evening approached, Dad finally received another update.

I watched his shoulders relax slightly.

Not completely.

Just enough.

The doctors had found answers.

There would be more tests.

There would be more conversations.

There would be decisions to make.

But the answers were not the ones anyone wanted to hear.

The doctors had found cancer.

I didn’t understand exactly what that meant.

But suddenly I understood the feeling that had been following me for weeks.

The feeling that something was different.

The feeling that everyone was carrying something heavy.

The feeling that Pops wasn’t quite himself.

Now it had a name.

Cancer.

I understood the way Mom’s voice sounded when she called Dad.

I understood the silence that followed.

I understood the sadness that settled over the house like a storm cloud that refused to move on.

Cancer.

It was a word that explained everything I had been sensing but couldn’t understand.

Suddenly there were appointments to schedule, specialists to see, and difficult conversations that nobody wanted to have. The future that had seemed so certain only days before now felt unclear.

That night I climbed onto the couch beside Dad and rested my head against his leg.

Outside, the sun was setting.

Inside, the house was quiet.

I closed my eyes and thought about Pops.

I thought about all the times I had seen him push through challenges that would have stopped other people. I thought about the determination that made him a Marine, a bodybuilder, and the kind of grandfather who never quit when things became difficult.

But this was different.

This wasn’t something he could simply outwork.

This wasn’t something he could ignore.

This was a battle he couldn’t fight alone.

Maybe that was what I had been learning all along.

Sometimes our hearts notice changes before our minds understand them.

Sometimes we feel that something is different long before we know why.

And sometimes the hardest part isn’t hearing the truth.

It’s realizing that deep down, we already knew something had changed.

As I drifted off to sleep beside Dad, I realized something else.

Every life has chapters.

Some are filled with joy.

Some are filled with adventure.

Some are filled with heartbreak.

We never know when one chapter ends and another begins.

Sometimes all it takes is a single phone call.

And suddenly the story changes.

What matters then is not pretending everything is fine.

What matters is facing the truth together.

What matters is loving the people beside us through the hard days as much as the good ones.

What matters is remembering that no one should have to carry a burden like this alone.

Because family, like love, shows up when it matters most.

🐾 Remi

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🐾 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.

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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.

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