This was the last picture I ever took with you.
We were sitting in the vet room, waiting.
I knew I was about to lose you — I just didn’t know how quiet the world would feel without you in it.
You weren’t just my dog. You were my constant. My comfort. My protector. For years, you slept on your bed right next to mine — every single night — close enough that I could hear you breathe. Close enough that I never felt alone. You stayed there like it was your post, like it was your job to keep me safe.
And you did.
When my husband was deployed more times than I can count on one hand and it was just me and the kids, you made our house feel protected. Every time someone came to the door, you ran to it — your bark booming through the house — making it clear this was your home and no one was going to hurt anyone inside it. You took that role seriously. You always did.
I keep replaying everything now. I thought you were just getting older… just becoming a grumpy old man. I didn’t know you were fighting cancer. I didn’t know until it had already metastasized — a growth that seemed to appear overnight. I still had hope when I took you to the vet, thinking maybe we could get ahead of treatment. Only then did I learn it had already spread to your lungs, and that your tests also came back positive for Cushing’s disease, caused by a tumor on your pituitary gland.
I didn’t know you were hurting for so long.
That realization hurts in a way I don’t know how to explain — but I also know dogs like you don’t complain. You just keep showing up. You just keep loving.
You loved your fleece baby blankets. Today, those same blankets are what I wrapped you in after you passed. It felt like the only way I could protect you one last time — the way you protected us for so many years.
There’s a stillness in this house now that feels heavy. I sat in my car afterward because I didn’t know how to walk back inside without you there — without your presence filling the space the way it always did.
I found you at the shelter around Christmas in 2016 after you were left behind during a hurricane and never came back for. You were meant to be my daughter’s Christmas present — but you became my heart. You chewed couches. You put holes in walls. I patched them with little heart-shaped pieces of fabric, like love notes you left behind. You escaped the garage any chance you got and turned it into a game, running alongside my car like we were racing. You talked to us — howling back when we howled — like we understood each other in a way that didn’t need words.
Every morning I fed you. Every night you waited beside me while I cooked, hoping for chicken or meat scraps. You were part of every day, every routine, every season of my life.
Letting you go today broke me — but loving you meant choosing peace for you instead of holding on for myself. I believe you’re whole now. I believe you’re free from pain. And I believe you’re somewhere peaceful, waiting… still watching… still protecting.
I don’t know how to live in a world where you aren’t lying next to my bed tonight.
But I do know this:
You were loved deeply.
You were never abandoned again.
And you will always be my good boy.
Until I see you again, Oliver —
rest easy, my protector.
I’ll carry you with me always.
….I would have kept you forever if love had been enough — so I’ll hold onto the hope that this goodbye is only temporary.
Rest Peacefully Oliver Michael Holguin
October 16,2016- January 28, 2026
…. I think you’re really gonna love
heaven—make sure you learn the ropes up there so when I get there, you can show me around 🤍