The Dogs I Loved and Lost
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I’ve always felt naturally close to animals.
Like they could sense my heart even when I didn’t have the words.
Like they understood something about me without needing to ask.
They never judged me. They never turned away. They just stayed—soft, steady, and present. Through all the chaos of my life, animals were my constant, my comfort, and my way to feel love without fear—my go-to when I needed something steady.
They were more than pets.
They were pieces of peace I could hold.
And even now, no matter how much time passes,
I still carry them with me.
We had a big boxer named Buster—strong, protective, and stubborn as ever.
He was the kind of dog who would’ve fought anyone to keep us safe, but he also had a wild side.
Every 4th of July, he’d try to eat firecrackers, thinking they were toys.
One time, he even got a fishing hook stuck in his throat, and we had to carefully get it out.
He acted tough, like nothing could touch him. That was Buster.
But he wasn’t soft with everything.
I remember the day I opened the chicken coop to pet the baby chicks.
I loved those little birds—tiny, gentle, full of life. I wanted to pet them and play with them.
But Buster got inside… and he killed them all.
There were feathers scattered everywhere, and I knew right away what had happened.
I ran home crying, blaming myself, and locked myself in my room.
Anna and Richard came to check on me, but the guilt stayed.
I didn’t mean for it to happen. I just wanted to love something small.
And that day, I learned love doesn’t always protect—not the way we want it to.
I felt like it was my fault the baby chicks died. I opened the coop, and I carried that weight for a long time. I held that as my fault. I felt responsible for what happened—but I understand now I was a child doing something innocent.
Eventually, Buster disappeared.
No goodbye. No answers. Just gone. Part of me still wonders where he went, if he was okay… if he knew he was loved. I would look for him, but he never came back home.
Then there was Sophie, our Cocker Spaniel. She had soft eyes and a wild spirit. She was always running away, no matter how much we cared for her. She would chew through her leash just to run. She was a wild child of a dog. She had puppies once with a chihuahua, and her sister dog lived with my Aunt Rebecca, so there was this quiet connection even between homes.
But one day, Sophie ran away and never came back.
I tried to find her.
I asked kids at school if they’d seen her.
I had a diary with a photo that looked like her, and I tried to make lost signs with it.
I didn’t want to give up. I couldn’t.
But Anna told me to stop. “It’s been over a month,” she said. “She’s not coming back.”
And I just remember that sinking feeling in my chest. The ache of hope crashing into silence.
I talked to God.
I talked to myself.
I begged that she was okay.
That someone kind found her and gave her a new home.
That she wasn’t scared or hurt or alone.
And if she was gone… I just hoped she went in peace.
And then there was Gracie.
My pit bull.
My best friend.
The first dog I ever truly bonded with.
She slept in my room when she could.
She played with me, protected me, followed me like a shadow I was never afraid of.
She made me feel safe when the world didn’t.
One day, she was bitten by a snake in the yard.
She had been tethered to a tree and couldn’t get away.
I remember the panic, the fear that pulsed in my chest, and I was scared she was going to die.
I hated knowing she had been hurt like that and didn’t get her help.
When I was taken into foster care, I didn’t get to bring her.
But I never stopped thinking about her.
Not once.
Even when everything around me changed, she stayed in my heart— the one soul who had loved me without question. I missed her so much it hurt. I wondered if she missed me, too.
Later, when I was living at KidsPeace, I finally found out what happened when I reached out to my biological family. She developed mastitis due to having puppies. They kept two of the puppies but rehomed the others. The vet bill was $3,000—more than my grandfather could afford.
So they took her to McDonald’s.
Got her a cheeseburger.
And then they put her down.
I wasn’t there.
I never got to say goodbye.
And it broke me.
I had loved her with everything in me, even from far away. I had hoped one day to see her again. And to learn the truth of how she died—without me, without warning— It still leaves an ache I can’t quite explain.
Gracie wasn’t just a dog.
She was my friend.
She was mine.
And I loved her so much!
We weren’t allowed to have cats—our mother was allergic to them.
But sometimes strays would find us anyway.
We’d feed them outside, leave food on the porch, whisper to them through the screen door.
We couldn’t bring them in, but we made space for them in any way we could.
We named them.
We worried when they disappeared.
We loved them in secret, the best way we knew how.
The truth is, I’ve always felt naturally close to animals.
They understood parts of me that people didn’t.
They didn’t need explanations.
They just knew when to be near.
They were steady.
Soft. Patient. Present.
Through all the chaos, the moves, the fear, and the silence, animals gave me something rare:
Unconditional love.
They didn’t leave when I cried.
They didn’t yell.
They didn’t hurt me. They stayed. And because of them… I survived more than anyone knew.
“The righteous care for the needs of their animals,
but the kindest acts of the wicked are cruel.”
—Proverbs 12:10
