The Silence That Speaks


Cocoa Rose wasn’t a loud dog.
She didn’t bark for attention, didn’t perform tricks for praise, and never chased after people just to be noticed. She simply showed up—quiet, steady, loyal—and settled into my life the way dusk settles over water.

Not flashy. Just... right.

She wasn’t a “people dog.” Guests earned side-eye. I earned her trust. And night after night, without fanfare, she claimed the same spot: my lap. Always the same gentle weight, the same soft sigh, the same stillness that calmed the whole room.

And here’s the part I’m ashamed to admit: for years, I didn’t fully get it.

The Dog Who Gave Everything Without Asking for Much

Cocoa didn’t care if I was halfway listening or doomscrolling through headlines. As long as she could curl up beside me, she was content.

That’s the great thing about dogs, isn’t it?
They don’t need your resume or your focus group-tested version of love. They love you distracted. They love you when you’re cranky, tired, distant. They love you when your mind’s in five places and your heart’s not sure where to land.

But even if she didn’t need my full attention, I’ve come to believe she deserved it.

Because she gave me hers—every single time.

Presence Isn’t Proximity

It took me longer than I want to admit to understand this:
Being near someone isn’t the same as being with them.

You can sit next to your spouse, your child, your dog—and still be gone.
You can reply “uh-huh” and still be absent.
You can love someone deeply and still miss the moments that mattered because you were too busy trying to keep up with the noise of everything else.

Cocoa taught me a different way. She didn’t demand my attention. She simply gave me hers—quietly, without condition, every night.

Now, when I come home, the first thing I do is flip my phone to Do Not Disturb.
Not because I’m trying to be some unplugged role model.
But because I remember how many moments I missed thinking I was present when I wasn’t.

And because I know better now.
Because Cocoa taught me.

If Tomorrow Never Comes

Sometimes I lie in bed and think about her:
Tucked up tight, one paw under her chin, eyes closed, breath syncing with mine.
And I wonder, the way Garth Brooks once sang:
“If tomorrow never comes, would she know how much I loved her?”

I think she did.

Because even before I learned how to give my full attention, Cocoa gave hers freely. And that, to me, is one of the purest forms of grace—being loved fully while you're still figuring out how to show up right.

What I Miss

I miss her every day.
Not in a loud way.
In the quiet spaces.

I miss the thud of her jumping onto the couch.
I miss her sigh—the one she’d let out once she settled into my lap, like finally.
I miss her judgmental looks at houseguests, and how she’d climb over them like a queen brushing past peasants just to reach her throne—me.

And I miss the silence she left behind.
It doesn’t echo.
It waits.
Like a space that remembers who used to fill it.

Who’s Sitting Next to You?

Maybe you’re doing it too—half-there in the places that need your whole heart.
Not because you don’t care.
But because you’re tired.
Distracted.
Busy trying to outrun a world that never seems to slow down.

But someone who loves you is already here.

So I’ll ask you what I had to ask myself:

Who’s sitting next to you right now?

And do they know they have all of you?

The world can wait a minute.
Someone who loves you is already here.

Cocoa’s Legacy

Cocoa wasn’t just a dog.
She was a blueprint.
For presence. For patience. For loving someone without demanding anything in return.

And though she’s gone, her lessons still show up in my lap—in the form of new dogs, new moments, and new awareness.

I’ll be sharing more about Cocoa in the weeks ahead. Because her story isn’t over. And because some dogs don’t just leave pawprints on your heart—they change its rhythm entirely.

P.S.
If you’ve got someone in your life—dog, child, partner, friend—who climbs into your space just to be near you, don’t wait to be perfect to notice them. Don’t wait for the big moment to say the simple thing.

Because love, at its best, isn’t loud or polished.

It’s a warm body curled up beside you, asking nothing but your presence in return.

And if you’re lucky enough to have that…
Be there.
Fully.

For them.
For you.
For the moment you’ll one day miss.

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