Image not of the author or Maddie. Chosen for symbolic representation of the bond we share with our animals.
Today was one of those perfect West Michigan summer days. Low eighties, little humidity, a breeze off the lake. Downtown hummed with life. Children laughing, birds chirping, the flea market buzzing two blocks away. A line stretched outside the art museum, and big, soft clouds floated across the sky. It was the kind of day that makes people fall in love with small towns.
I was working a fundraiser for the veterinary clinic where I work, a low-cost nonprofit that helps people care for their beloved pets. We don’t receive government funding, so we rely on donations. Today’s event was a “pub pedal” that brought together five local rescues. Volunteers sat at participating eateries to stamp “passports” and enter people into drawings.
I was stationed outside one of the new restaurant buildings. Because our town is small and tightly woven, I saw a lot of familiar faces – clients, friends, people I couldn’t always name but whose animals I remembered. That’s often the way it goes. I remember the dogs before the people.
A woman passed by on her way to the restroom and said she’d grab her stamp on the way out. I turned to my fellow volunteer and said, “I know her. I don’t know from where, but I know her.”
When she returned, she looked at me and said, “I know you from somewhere.”
Then she said, “Oh, you helped me with my do—” (let’s call her Maddie), and her voice broke. She turned away from me, hand covering her mouth, eyes tightly shut. I stood up and walked around the table to hug her, though I still didn’t know what moment she was remembering.
She tried to speak but had trouble finding words. Her tears came quickly and didn’t stop for a while. When she was finally able to talk, she told me I had been in the room when Maddie passed.
“You were incredible,” she said.
She remembered how I wrapped my arm around her when she was falling apart. How I gently positioned myself to block her view when it came time for the final injection – so her last memory wouldn’t be the needle, but Maddie’s face.
“You were so kind,” she said. “You made something unbearable feel a little less alone.”
And as she spoke, the memory returned. Exam Room 1. Her husband was there, his arm around her shoulders. They were both crying. I remember her heartbreak at saying goodbye to Maddie. I remember his grief too – but now I realize, some of his tears were for her. For the weight she was carrying. For the loss she was experiencing that he could not stop.
Summer bustled on around us. People walked past, chatting, laughing, heading to lunch. And there we stood. She hugged me again – one of those long, anchoring hugs, the kind you give someone who helped you survive something you thought you couldn’t.
She cried into my shoulder while the sounds of the day kept going. The two of us, in a little pocket of memory, held still while everything else moved.
It’s rare to know if you’ve made a difference. That day with Maddie was nearly a year ago. I hadn’t thought about it in some time. But today reminded me: the smallest gestures matter. Presence matters. People remember how you made them feel – especially in the hardest moments.
I’m not sharing this to say, look what I did. I’m sharing it because this kind of work – the quiet, emotional, often invisible labor of love – matters.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, the world hands that truth back to you.
We move through the world so quickly. Errands, events, weather talk. But sometimes, something breaks through – a glance, a hug, a memory returned – and suddenly we’re face to face with a moment that asks us to stay. To bear witness. To soften. These are the soul moments. The quiet confirmations that love – whether for a person, a dog, a stranger – is never wasted. If you feel one, pause. Let it hold you. You may not remember the day. But someone else just might.
And, this is what life is about.
Words Can Express 