I wish pets lived as long as we do.

I lost my dog this month on my son's birthday. My girl girl. My Gigi.

Her full name was Galaxy—but my older son Liam, just a toddler when we brought her home, called her “Gigi.” And it stuck.

She was a black lab husky mix, but really? All heart.

She ran straight to me the moment we met, like she already knew I was hers. And she became ours. She took baths with Liam as a puppy and her new best friend. Slept beside him and later in my other boy's room. Shared snacks, secrets, enjoyed the water pool, had an internal alarm clock for dinner time, allowed my boys to even try to ride on her like a pony, and was the alpha mom dog to our beagles.

She didn’t feel like a pet—she felt like another child. A sister. A soft, furry guardian of our joy.

And then, suddenly and violently, this early in the week, she started coughing. Afraid to know the results, but Liam and I took a trip to the vet end of the week early in the morning. An X-ray. A word that knocked the wind out of me: cancer.

It was too advanced in her lungs from another organ. Too late. She had fought so silently, without letting us see how much she hurt. Because that’s what animals do—they protect us from their pain.

I had to make the hardest choice a mother makes—not just for her kids, but for a soul she couldn’t bear to lose. I didn’t want her or my family to watch another loved family member lose their life slowly.

I held her through it. Whispered my love. Stroked her face. I felt her last breath. And something inside me broke… again.

Because I’ve lost my mom. My dad. And now, my four-legged girl.

And even though I’m the one who stays strong, I’ll admit it—I feel lost.

I’ve always said I wish pets lived as long as we do.

Why would we be given these unconditional love-beings—these snuggle bugs, shadow-followers, heart-healers—if we have to keep saying goodbye?

But maybe… that’s the point.

They’re here because life is short.

They teach us how to love without words. How to be present. How to forgive quickly and cuddle tightly. How to live with open-hearted devotion—even when the timeline isn’t fair. They remind us, every single day, what matters most: connection.

They don’t care about your status, your weight, or your mistakes. They care if you’re home. They care if you’re hurting. They know when you need comfort, and they give it, without question.

And when they go…

they leave paw prints not just on our hearts, but on our souls.

So if you’ve lost your own Gigi… I see you.

You’re not crazy for grieving deeply. You’re not weak for still reaching out to their bed in the middle of the night or calling their name without thinking.

You loved fully. You gave your heart to something that couldn’t speak your language but still knew every inch of you.

And yes, you may do it again someday.

Because the love they give is worth every ounce of the pain.

To all the hearts missing their fur babies today—

I’m with you.

And I believe they’re still with us, too.

Gigi, my girl girl, thank you for everything. You were never just a dog. You were—and will always be—part of my family, my heart, and my healing.