My Family’s Best Friend

“I found your yoga dog,” Diana, a family friend, told my wife, Cindy, in 2011. She volunteered at an animal-rescue center and knew our family was looking for a dog that could be a soothing presence; we were desperately in need of it. Shortly after that we met Romeo, a four-year-old beagle-terrier mix. When Romeo came into our home, Cindy says, he brought laughter with him.

A month ago, Romeo was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. And a couple weeks ago, he was peacefully put down, surrounded by the people who loved him. Having never before owned a dog, I wasn’t fully prepared for the grief or the tears. I should have been.

Many others who have lost a pet have felt similar grief. They, too, have known the joyful and reassuring presence of an animal companion. A pet’s devotion, a close friend told me, creates a force field around our home, warding off the unpredictable and frightening realities of daily life. In giving something that’s needed to a family, a pet becomes a part of it, insinuating its life into ours.

[From the December 2022 issue: How much would you pay to save your pet’s life?]

For a dozen years, Romeo was a part of our daily lives and special occasions. He had his own Christmas stocking and snow boots. He wore a necktie for birthday celebrations and was a companion on car trips. Cindy’s mom used to tease that Romeo was in the middle of almost every picture we sent her.

We had purchased our house, but Romeo owned it. He had a bed in almost every room, and he considered our living-room couch his personal space. On one occasion, when we went out to a movie, he treated himself to steak and piecrust on the kitchen counter. (He skipped the vegetables.)

Romeo had other flaws. For example, he was not particularly brave. He once chased and caught a squirrel. They squared off. The squirrel won. Thereafter, Romeo gave up chasing squirrels. He preferred tummy rubs, and I’m doubtful any dog ever received more of them.

Romeo’s love for us was simple, uncomplicated, and limitless. He was also guileless; he had no ulterior motives. He wanted to connect with us, and in return to be loved by us. His trust in us—to protect him, to feed him, to show affection to him—was absolute. Romeo also had a remarkable ability to read emotions, to show empathy and sympathy, to comfort and to heal. When he sensed our children were hurt or afraid or traumatized, he would move gently toward them, literally trying to lick away their wounds. Romeo invariably grounded them; he was a natural consoler. And he was completely reliable.

[Read: On top of everything else, my dog died]

When we returned home after being gone, we could see him through the front window, his face pressed against the glass, his tail wagging. When we opened the front door, he would leap with excitement, as if currents of electricity were flowing through his body. He would greet us like we had returned from a combat tour. At those moments everything seemed right with the world, or at least with our world.

Romeo was a peaceful, reassuring presence in our lives. My daughter treasured the consistency and purity of his affection; my son called him our “connecting point,” because he made us laugh and bonded us together. He was Cindy’s shadow, trailing her from room to room. He was part of the rhythms of our days.

When we walked Romeo around our neighborhood, he made plenty of stops to mark his territory. But we could also not help but notice his unhurried trot, which I suppose is what one would expect from such a dignified creature.

We will find another dog to invite into our home and hearts. We know he won’t replace Romeo; it would be unfair to expect him to. We can only hope that our next companion will bring us some measure of the joy and laughter and love that Romeo brought into our lives.