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.
The Gathering…
The weeks that followed felt different.
Life did not stop.
The sun still rose every morning.
The birds still sang outside the windows.
People still went to work.
Dogs still chased squirrels.
But underneath all of it, something had changed.
Pops was getting weaker.
At first it was small things.
He slept more.
He moved slower.
The strong hands that used to lift almost anything seemed tired now. The voice that once filled an entire room sometimes became quiet. The man who had spent his whole life taking care of everyone else was now the one who needed help.
They just kept showing up.
Day after day.
Week after week.
I spent most of my time in the backyard with Colt, Gus, Tigger, and Ozzy.
The five of us would lay beneath the trees while the summer breeze moved through the grass. Sometimes we played. Sometimes we chased each other around the yard. Sometimes we simply sat and watched the humans moving in and out of the house.
One afternoon, while Pops rested in a chair on the patio and the family moved quietly around him, Colt stretched out beside me and sighed.
“Humans are strange,” he said.
I looked at him.
“How so?”
“They spend their whole lives rushing around. Then when something important happens, they stop everything.”
I thought about that.
“Maybe they know what’s important.”
Colt nodded slowly.
“Maybe.”
Across from us, Gus lifted his head.
“I think humans are a lot like dogs.”
The rest of us looked at him.
That was not something Gus usually said.
“How?” Ozzy asked.
Gus glanced toward Pops.
“When someone you love is hurting, you stay close.”
Nobody answered.
Because he was right.
That was exactly what everyone was doing.
Tigger rolled onto his back and stared at the clouds drifting overhead.
“You know what I think?” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I think humans spend too much time worrying.”
We all laughed.
Even Gus.
That sounded exactly like Tigger.
“They do,” Tigger continued. “They worry about tomorrow. They worry about next week. They worry about things that haven’t happened yet.”
“And dogs don’t?” Ozzy asked.
“Nope.”
“You worried when you thought the vacuum cleaner was attacking the house.”
“That was different.”
We all laughed again.
For a moment things felt normal.
Then we looked toward Pops.
The laughter faded.
The silence returned.
Ozzy was the youngest among us.
He still saw the world differently.
Everything was new to him.
Everything was exciting.
Everything felt permanent.
“What is happening to Pops?” he finally asked.
None of us answered immediately.
Because we all knew.
Even if we didn’t want to say it.
Finally Colt spoke.
“Pops is getting older.”
Ozzy tilted his head.
“That’s it?”
“No,” I said quietly.
The yard became still.
Even the birds seemed quieter.
I looked toward the patio where Pops sat with Mom beside him.
She was talking.
He was listening.
Both were smiling.
But it wasn’t the same smile I remembered from before.
This smile carried something else.
Something deeper.
Something heavier.
“Life has seasons,” I said.
The others looked at me.
I wasn’t even sure where the words came from.
Maybe from Mom.
Maybe from Dad.
Maybe from simply watching.
“Puppies become dogs. Summer becomes fall. Day becomes night. Everything changes.”
Ozzy was quiet.
“I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted.
“Can we stop it?”
“No.”
The answer sat between us.
Simple.
Honest.
Painful.
Then Gus spoke.
“Maybe we’re not supposed to stop it.”
“What do you mean?” Ozzy asked.
Gus looked toward the house.
“I think maybe we’re supposed to appreciate it.”
Nobody said anything.
Because deep down we all knew he was right.
Every game we played.
Every barbecue.
Every birthday.
Every walk.
Every nap in the sun.
They mattered because they didn’t last forever.
That afternoon Mom came outside carrying a blanket.
She placed it gently over Pops’ legs.
He smiled at her.
A small smile.
But a real one.
Then Mama came outside with a glass of water.
Aunt Donna arrived with food.
Dad carried a chair.
Uncle Mike walked through the gate.
Everyone doing something.
Everyone helping.
Everyone showing up.
And suddenly I understood something.
Love wasn’t always loud.
Sometimes it wasn’t grand gestures.
Sometimes it wasn’t speeches.
Sometimes it wasn’t heroic at all.
Sometimes love looked like a blanket.
A glass of water.
A meal.
A chair.
A phone call.
A visit.
A person sitting beside you when things were hard.
As the sun slowly began setting behind the trees, the backyard turned golden.
The same backyard where Colt and I had first said goodbye as puppies.
The same backyard where birthdays had been celebrated.
The same backyard where family gathered every summer.
The same backyard Pops had built with his own hands.
Nothing looked different.
Yet everything felt different.
We all sat quietly watching.
Watching Pops.
Watching the family.
Watching love at work.
Finally Ozzy broke the silence.
“I think I understand.”
“What?” Colt asked.
Ozzy looked toward Pops.
“Everyone is tired.”
They were.
You could see it.
The long days.
The worry.
The appointments.
The uncertainty.
It weighed on everyone.
“But they keep showing up anyway.”
Nobody answered.
Because that was exactly what love looked like.
Not perfection.
Not strength.
Not having all the answers.
Just showing up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
That evening, as the family gathered around Pops on the patio, I rested my head on the grass and watched the people I loved.
For the first time, I understood something that support dogs know better than most.
Sometimes you can’t fix what hurts.
Sometimes you can’t change the outcome.
Sometimes you can’t make the pain go away.
But you can stay.
You can sit beside someone.
You can let them know they aren’t alone.
And sometimes that becomes the most important gift of all.
As the last light disappeared from the sky, Pops looked around at everyone gathered near him.
Mom.
Dad.
Mama.
Aunt Donna.
Uncle Mike.
And all of us dogs spread across the backyard.
For a brief moment, he smiled.
Not because he was better.
Not because life was easy.
But because he was surrounded by love.
And maybe that was enough.
Maybe that always had been.
Because family isn’t measured by how many people stand beside you when life is good.
Family is measured by who stays when life becomes hard.
And everyone stayed.
🐾 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 7: The Phone Call That Changed Everything
·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 he…
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.
© 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.
Remi is a humble philosopher. I like seeing life through his eyes. Thank you for sharing his life (and yours) with us, John. ☺️🤗 🐶
Beautiful and poignant words .