Quinn’s Way
People sometimes smile when they see how my face lights up the second I spot a dog. They call it “overly excited,” but I know better. It’s not just excitement, it’s recognition.
When I look at Quinn, my golden retriever and therapy partner, I see the truest kind of love I’ve ever known. Not the kind people offer with strings attached, not the kind that fades when life gets messy. Quinn’s love is steady, loyal, and unshaken by the storms in my life.
But there was one day, one of the hardest of my life, when I learned just how deep his love really runs.
It was the day we said goodbye to Abby. She had been my first therapy dog, my constant shadow, my promise to God fulfilled. Brain cancer had begun to take her from me in ways too painful to ignore, and the kindest choice left was to let her go. A gentle vet came to the house, so Abby could leave from the place she loved most, surrounded by familiar walls and the people who adored her.
Quinn had always been Abby’s best friend. They were inseparable, two golden souls who understood each other without words. I thought, when the time came, that Quinn might pace or whine, confused and distressed. But instead, he stayed close to me.
As I knelt beside Abby, stroking her fur and whispering the same words I had spoken to her every day, “You’re a good girl. You’re safe. You’re loved.” I felt Quinn press against my side. He didn’t nudge Abby. He didn’t try to interrupt. He just leaned into me, his weight warm and grounding, as if he had decided that my pain was now his to carry.
The vet spoke softly. The room felt still, the air thick with love and grief. Abby’s breathing slowed, and I buried my face in her neck, memorizing her scent. Through it all, Quinn didn’t move. I realized then that even though he had lost his best friend, he was more concerned with my well being than his own heartbreak.
Later, when the house was too quiet, I found Quinn lying in Abby’s favorite spot on the loveseat, her worn stuffed rabbit tucked under his chin. I sat beside him, and he shifted just enough for my hand to rest on his chest, where his heart still beat steady and sure. And in that quiet, I knew, we would help each other through the grief, just as Abby had helped so many through theirs.
That’s the kind of love Quinn carries into every therapy visit.
He senses pain before a word is spoken. He knows when to offer a nudge, when to rest his head on a lap, and when to simply be still. It’s not training. It’s who he is.
So, if you see me kneeling to greet a stranger’s dog, don’t mistake it for overexcitement. It’s gratitude. It’s the recognition of a love that asks for nothing and gives everything.
Quinn is more than a dog.
He is my family.
He is my home.
He is everything.
Stories Past Present Future 