The Heart Dog

Before Layla… Before my son… Before the river… There was a dog.

Her name was Mocha—a beautiful miniature Australian Shepherd who adored me. Every evening after work, I’d sit outside and talk to her about my day, the people I met, and the thoughts I carried. I know, it sounds strange—a man speaking to a dog as if she were human. But Mocha listened. She looked at me with eyes full of understanding, as if she hung on every word. In her presence, I felt like a conquering hero returning from battle, and her joyful barks were the songs of my victories.

She would have loved to hear the story you’re about to read in this book. But sadly, Mocha left this world in 2019. She was only two years old—just a pup. In dog years, she was about fourteen, and I would have given anything to love her for as long as she loved me. Heartworms took her one afternoon while I was working miles away at an Amazon facility in Lexington. That day changed everything—my hope, my spiritual freedom, my sense of self, even the love I had for Layla. It all turned to dust.

Layla had been driving me to work since I wrecked my car a few weeks earlier. Just a month before that, I lost my grandmother on my mother’s side. Mocha’s death was the final blow. I never imagined saying goodbye to her so soon—and I didn’t even get the chance.

Losing a loved one comes in many forms. When my grandmother’s health declined, we expected it. I was able to visit her at her deathbed and say, “Thank you for loving me. I love you, Memaw. We’ll be okay.” My mom called me later to tell me she had passed.

“Your Memaw’s gone, son,” she said. “Your uncle came to visit, and she died a few minutes later. She was waiting for him.”

“That’s sweet of her,” I replied, tears welling up. “I’m glad she found peace.”

It was as if she asked Jesus for a few more minutes—and He gave them.

But when I learned about Mocha’s passing, it was different. I got into Layla’s van and saw her smiling—not the kind of smile that says “I missed you,” but one that said, “I know something you don’t.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, still smiling.

“Sorry about what?”

“Your dog died,” she said, with a forced frown.

I blinked, stunned. “What?”

“Your mom called me on the way to get you. Mocha died about an hour ago.”

Why was she smiling while telling me that one of the last pieces of my heart had vanished? A chill ran through me, like standing on a crumbling bridge. My gaze drifted from Layla’s face into oblivion.

“No… no… that can’t be right,” I whispered, dialing my mom.

“You don’t believe me?” Layla asked, surprised.

My mom answered.

“Mom, is it true? Is Mocha gone?” I asked, tears swelling.

“She is, son,” she said softly.

I cried into my shoulder, trying to hide my tears from Layla.

“Did she suffer?” I asked.

“It was the heartworms, I think. I’m sorry, son. Your dad is burying her later today.”

“I never got to say goodbye,” I whimpered. “I want to be there.”

“We don’t want the coyotes to get to her. Dad wants to bury her now, but you can visit later.”

I hung up and cried silently in the passenger seat.

Layla glanced at me and chuckled, “Babe, what’s wrong with you? She was just a dog.”

Her words cut deep, but I stayed silent. I must have hurt her somehow for her to grow so cold. We became like ice cubes in a freezer—competing to see who could get colder faster.

“I want to go see Mocha,” I said.

“Ugh, we can’t till this weekend. I’ve got too much going on.”

“Layla, she was my dog. I need to say goodbye.”

“And you will—this weekend,” she replied. “It’s not like she was that important to you. She’s been down there this whole time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could’ve brought her up here. We could’ve said goodbye.”

“She was only two years old!” I shouted.

Layla’s eyes widened. “You’re grieving. We’ll give you time this week, and we’ll go down this weekend.”

I was at the mercy of her schedule. Bitter thoughts crept in. I regretted leaving Mocha behind when I moved in with Layla. I couldn’t trust her dog, Chewie—a grumpy, territorial terrier. Layla insisted he wouldn’t have bothered Mocha, but our home was chaotic. Her kids fought constantly, and Chewie soiled the carpets and furniture. I resented him. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I wished him gone. Why did a smelly, ornery dog get thirteen years, while Mocha only got two?

When we got home, Layla told her kids, “Nathaniel’s dog died, guys.” That was it. No sympathy. No comfort. I locked myself in the workshop downstairs to grieve alone. I looked at the pallet slabs and my handmade workbench, and I began crafting a memorial cross for Mocha.

Woodworking was something my dad taught me. He taught me how to use tools, solve problems, and be a father figure—even to children not of his blood. That legacy shaped how I tried to fit into Layla’s world. I loved her children like my own. But Mocha’s death revealed the truth: I wasn’t truly respected in that home.

From that week on, I knew the love I gave Layla was wasted. Every touch became contempt. Every kind word became a threat. Mocha’s death exposed the lie I had been living. I left Lebanon searching for a family—but I left behind the one that truly mattered. She was my heart dog. One of a kind.

That weekend, I stepped out of the van with the wooden cross I made and walked to Mocha’s grave alone. The cross had a heart with a paw print at the top and bottom, two Australian Shepherd silhouettes facing her name, and a hook for her collar. My dad showed me where he buried her.

I fell to my knees and cried. I spoke to her like I used to after work, imagining her bark in reply.

“Hey sweetheart,” I began, tears streaming. “It’s your dad. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I’d give anything to hear your voice again. You always told me you loved me.”

Mocha used to bark in a way that sounded like “Ah-wuv-voo!” I winced at the memory.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come get you. Looks like Jesus beat me to it. His yard is bigger than mine, and I know you’re loving it up there. I’m broken down here, but I won’t be for long. I promise to make your sacrifice worth it. I’ll never forget our short time together. I don’t think I’ll ever heal—not until I see you again. I love you, Mocha. A thousand lifetimes.