There are days I know, without a doubt,
that my dog, Milo, has kept me alive.
Through pain, through illness,
through the kind of darkness
that makes you forget who you are.

His love is pure.
Steady and uncomplicated.
He doesn’t need to understand the details
to know when I’m hurting.
He just knows.

When I’m sick, he stays close.
Not out of duty, but devotion.
He lies beside me, his body pressed against mine,
steady as breath.
Something in that simple nearness softens everything.
Most of all the ache, the fear, and
the loneliness that never quite leaves.

It’s as if he knows that being here is enough.
That his quiet presence speaks louder
than words ever could.
Sometimes he looks at me
with those deep, knowing eyes,
and I swear he’s saying,
“I’ve got you. Rest now.”

He senses what I can’t always name,
despair, sadness, pain,
and meets it with love.
One that asks for nothing in return.
There’s no judgment in him,
no hesitation.
Just a calm, certain kind of love
that holds me together
when I start to fall apart.

He has taught me what grace truly looks like.
Not grand or perfect,
but loyal, patient, and real.

Because of him, I’ve learned to stay.
To keep fighting.
To see myself the way he does,
through his eyes.
With love and compassion.
Instead of criticism and hate.

He helps me believe that I’m worth it.
Worth that kind of love after all.
And that has saved me, again and again,
in more ways than I can ever repay.