Duke wasn’t just a pet. He was family—loud, goofy, stubborn, and full of life. He chased shadows like they owed him something, barked at crows like he had a personal vendetta, and once drank beer out of his dish just because we were all drinking. That was him. Always wanting to be part of it.

Twelve years. That’s how long we had him. And still, it doesn’t feel like enough.

Earlier today—around noon—I got a phone call. Someone found him. But it wasn’t the call I’d hoped for. It was a recovery. My heart just dropped.

I left work within 30 minutes. I drove straight there. Didn’t think. Just went.

A railway crew had found him. Thirteen men stood quietly while I walked up and saw my boy lying there. I broke. I couldn’t stop crying. I don’t think they knew what to do. They just watched. I had my sunglasses on, but it didn’t matter—they saw the pain.

I took his collar. I couldn’t leave it behind. I went home and got a box. Came back. I placed him in it gently. I drove back home. Buried him.

Sat by the grave for a while. I couldn’t move. Just sitting there, talking to him, not making sense.

He had been gone for a while. Deep down, I knew it. But this… this made it real. And it hurt in ways I didn’t expect.

Still does.

But here’s what I keep thinking about: that happy face. He had this expression—like his whole body was smiling. You knew when he was happy. And that’s what I want to remember.

Not today. Not the call or the grave.

But the way he used to run across the yard. The way he’d sneak onto the couch even when he wasn’t allowed. The way he just was.

He was the best boy—my best friend.

And even though he’s gone, he’ll always be here in those small, quiet moments. I still glance at the door on the way, hoping to see him come running in.

Run free, Duke. You were so loved. You still are.