A friend lost his service dog yesterday.

There are a handful of phrases people say that immediately tell me they have no idea what they’re talking about. One of those is, “It’s just a dog.”

Bullshit.

Anyone who truly values the animals in their life—especially their dogs—understands that they are family. They are our children in every way that matters. I’ve heard people argue that a dog could never be as important as a child. That’s their opinion. Mine is different.

My dogs have been an integral part of my life. They have been my companions, my protectors, my therapists, and, on more than one occasion, my reason for making it through another day. I try to treat them with the same dignity, love, and respect every child deserves. Honestly, in many cases, probably better than some people treat their children.

My first service dog was Ranger.

He was glued to my side and became an inseparable part of my life. He saved me more times than I can count. Even today, I mourn him the same way I would mourn a child.

Unless you’ve lived with a service dog, it is difficult to understand the relationship between a handler and their partner. It goes far beyond companionship. It is built through thousands of hours of training, trust, routine, and shared experiences.

A service dog is trained to see you at your absolute worst.

For me, that means PTSD.

My current service dog recognizes my trigger behaviors long before I realize what’s happening. He has an incredible toolbox of responses. Sometimes he’ll distract me by deliberately getting in my way until I focus on him. Sometimes he’ll become just disruptive enough to pull my attention away from whatever is spiraling in my mind. In more serious situations, he’ll physically try to guide me toward an exit.

Those changes in behavior are often enough to pull me back into reality.

That intervention isn’t a convenience.

It’s mitigation.

It can literally prevent a dangerous situation from becoming much worse.

Our lives become intertwined in ways that are difficult to explain. My service dogs have traveled with me almost everywhere. They’ve flown on airplanes, ridden Amtrak across both the Intermountain West and the Northeast Corridor, navigated the New York City subway, BART in San Francisco, light rail systems, public buses, Ubers, and even Waymo driverless cars.

I’ve joked that they could probably drive my car if only they could reach the pedals.

That describes both Ranger and Pax.

When Ranger died, my world came apart for a while.

A service dog isn’t simply a pet.

They’re a life preserver.

A lifeline.

A trusted partner who quietly stands between you and some of the darkest moments of your life.

Service dogs perform countless jobs. Some alert to dangerous changes in blood sugar. Others recognize seizures before they happen. Some detect cardiac changes, assist with mobility, or help people navigate blindness.

Many can even recognize changes they were never specifically trained for.

That brings me to Luka.

Luka was a Siberian sled dog and my friend’s PTSD service dog.

He was exceptional.

Recently, my friend began experiencing what appears to be a seizure disorder while his physicians continue searching for the cause. Luka wasn’t trained for seizure response, yet he began recognizing the episodes anyway. Using the same instincts and skills that made him an outstanding PTSD service dog, he started protecting my friend during those events.

He hadn’t been taught to do that.

He simply understood that his person needed him.

Yesterday, I watched Luka’s final moments.

I also watched my friend.

He tried to maintain that familiar stiff upper lip, but I could see his entire world shifting underneath him.

Standing there, I wasn’t simply witnessing his grief.

I was reliving my own.

Every ounce of pain I felt when Ranger died came flooding back. It was as though those years disappeared, and I was standing in that moment all over again.

Not only did my friend lose his partner…

His son lost his friend.

That part hurt almost as much to watch.

A service dog lives with the entire family. They celebrate birthdays, vacations, holidays, and ordinary Tuesday afternoons. They become woven into the rhythm of everyday life.

Eventually comes the heartbreaking conversation no parent ever wants to have.

Sometimes I think that’s harder than saying goodbye ourselves.

My friend said something yesterday that stayed with me.

“No, I’m not going to kill myself because of this. It hurts. It stings. But no matter what, I have to move forward.”

That’s exactly right.

Grief doesn’t mean giving up.

It means learning how to carry the love forward after the one you loved is gone.

I’m grateful for Luka.

I’m grateful for Ranger.

I’m grateful for Pax and every service dog that quietly goes about changing lives without asking for recognition.

When you see a service dog team in public, remember that the dog is working.

If you want to interact, ask the handler first—or simply let them continue on their way.

One of my earliest service dog trainers explained it perfectly.

Distracting a working service dog is like walking up to someone on portable oxygen and pulling the tubing out of their nose just to see what happens.

It’s an uncomfortable analogy.

It’s also accurate.

The dog isn’t there for entertainment.

The dog is medical equipment wrapped in fur, love, loyalty, and an extraordinary heart.

Can I function without my service dog?

For a little while.

Just like someone on supplemental oxygen can sometimes function briefly without it.

Eventually, though, we both need what keeps us safe.

Anyone who has traveled with me both with and without a service dog will tell you I’m a completely different person.

I owe that difference to my four-legged partner.

So no…

It’s not just a dog.

It’s courage.

It’s trust.

It’s safety.

It’s unconditional love given without hesitation.

Rest in peace, Luka.

Rest in peace, Ranger.

Thank you for giving two men the strength to face days they never believed they could survive.

Tonight, hug your dog.

Treasure the far-too-short time they’re given with us.

Hug your mom.

She’ll be gone before you know it.

And above all…

Be the kind of person your dog and your mom helped you become.