It rained last night here in Arizona; rare, heavy droplets that painted our windows and mirrored the storm in my heart.
There’s something poetic about it.
Grief has a way of drawing the weather into its orbit, as if the skies knew we said goodbye to our dog, Kato.
I never imagined losing a dog could feel this way.
I never even wanted a dog.
We got Kato nearly thirteen years ago.
Me, reluctantly, my wife glowing with excitement.
I said yes to appease her, not knowing that I was welcoming in a friendship that would outlast seasons, cities, and chapters of life.
Kato was just a pup when he trotted into our lives.
Back then, I didn’t think it was possible to love an animal that much.
But love has a funny way of working its roots into unexpected soil.
Somewhere along the miles we ran together across North America.
Early mornings in the Rockies, dusky jogs through desert trails, damp forest paths in the Pacific Northwest; he became part of me.
He had a kind of soul that made space for everyone.
When we brought each of our children home for the first time, Kato met them not with confusion or jealousy, but with gentleness.
He sniffed them softly, laid beside their bassinets, and stood guard like a sentry.
As our kids grew, he became their pillow, their protector, their first playmate.
They’ve never known a world without him in it until now.
Our family lore is filled with Kato stories.
The time he got skunked.
Then the time after that when, unbelievably, he got skunked again.
The way he used to hang halfway out of the car while we cruised down the San Diego boardwalk, his tongue out, looking exactly like the scene from Marley & Me.
He had this way of making everything feel like an adventure.
Like we were all in on something wonderful together.
Now, it’s over.
And the house feels too quiet.
Almost thirteen years.
A lifetime in dog years.
And still not enough.
As I sat in stillness that morning; my face tear-streaked, the window wet with rain,
I remembered an article I once read about how Japan began offering bereavement leave for employees who had lost pets.
At the time, I thought it was sentimental.
Maybe even impractical.
But yesterday, as a business owner myself, I found deep gratitude in having the freedom to stop and grieve.
Because I needed it.
My wife needed it.
And our children, young and unfamiliar with this depth of loss, especially needed it.
Kato wasn’t just a pet.
He was family.
He was the beginning of our family, really.
A companion before the babies, before the cross-country moves, before the gray hairs.
So now I wonder: Should companies rethink how we view pet loss?
Not because we’re trying to equate it to human death, but because for many of us, these animals are woven into the very fabric of our lives.
They anchor us.
They teach us gentleness, loyalty, and presence.
And when they’re gone, something irreplaceable goes with them.
Grief demands time.
Processing it is a gift.
And as our workplaces evolve, perhaps it’s time to consider that loss is loss, even when it has four legs, a wagging tail, and a heart big enough to fill an entire home.
Kato, thank you for every mile, every memory, and every quiet comfort.
I didn’t know I needed you.
But now I don’t know how to say goodbye.
You were, and always will be, a very good boy.
