Wow, it’s been eight years since I met you.
Some days it only feels like yesterday. It’s strange how certain moments stay so sharp in your mind. Moments you won’t ever forget. Even if you forget the exact date once in a while, you never forget the feeling of it.
Meeting you was that moment for me.
I was nervous. I was excited. I was scared. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. You knew a lot more than I did. You already came pre-programmed. I had to learn what you knew. I had to unlearn what I thought I understood about dog behavior.
Before you, dogs were companions. Pets. Family. But you were something different. You were a partner. You had a job. And stepping into life with you meant stepping into something much bigger than I had imagined.
Dempsey was a silly chocolate lab with boundless energy. The kind of energy that filled a room before he even fully walked into it. He was mischievous in that clever, always-thinking kind of way. When he played, he played loud. Vocal. Dramatic. Fully committed. There was no halfway with you. Everything was big.
But when it came time to work, you were ready.
When you first came to live with me, I remember sitting down. I read through the notes from your trainers, your foster family, and even the prison inmates who helped train you. I wanted to know everything about the dog standing in my living room. Who you were before you were mine.
One comment has stayed with me all these years. An inmate wrote that you were eager to work. That you were ready. That you found repetition boring. You didn’t want to keep practicing the job. You wanted to go out and do the job you were meant to do.
That didn’t surprise me.
You were never content just going through the motions. You wanted real life. Real challenges. You faced challenges while working at the largest mall in America. There were lights, crowds, and noise everywhere.
Or you traveled on an Amtrak train eight hours to Chicago. This was less than three weeks after moving into my home. Three weeks. Most dogs are still figuring out where the water bowl is. And there you were, settling at my feet on a moving train like it was exactly where you belonged.
Meanwhile, I was still figuring out how to hold your leash without feeling like the entire world was watching me.
You understood your job. I was still trying to understand mine.
I had to learn how to trust you. Really trust you. I had to learn how to advocate for you. I had to learn how to take up space in public without apologizing for it. Trusting you meant admitting I needed help. And that was something I hadn’t fully made peace with yet.
You pushed me ahead simply by being ready. When I would have stayed home, you were eager to go. When I doubted whether I could handle something, you stood steady beside me like you already knew we could. Your energy didn’t just make you a good service dog—it made me braver.
You weren’t perfect. You were goofy. You got into things. You made me laugh at the worst possible times. But that was part of your magic. You reminded me that partnership didn’t have to be heavy all the time. There was room for joy. Room for chaos. Room for silliness—even in a life that required so much seriousness.
That first meeting in 2018 didn’t just introduce me to my first service dog. It reshaped the direction of my life. It changed how I see disability. It changed how I move through the world. It changed what I believe I’m capable of.
Maybe one of the greatest gifts you gave me wasn’t fully understood until after you were gone. It became clear to me later.
Can Do Canines often says, “Our dogs fetch amazing things.” After everything we experienced together, that line felt deeper. It made me think about the places we went, the fears we faced, the things I once thought were impossible.
So I had these words tattooed on my arm along with your paw print after you passed:
“Together we did amazing things.”
And we did.
We did things I never thought I could do.
We did things I was scared to do.
We stepped into spaces that once felt overwhelming and made them ours.
But we did it together.
You were always on my right side.
And in many ways, you still are.
Working with you made me a better dog dad.
Not just to you—but now to Surley.
You two could not be more different. You were a chocolate lab—energetic, chaotic, vocal when playing. Big personality. Big presence.
Surley is a yellow lab with a completely different rhythm. He’s calmer. Quieter. A little more sensitive. Where you barreled ahead, he reads the room. Where you demanded engagement, he offers steady presence.
At first, that difference took adjustment.
After years of your intensity and eagerness, learning Surley’s softer cues meant slowing down. Paying closer attention. Meeting him where he is instead of expecting what I was used to.
But I wasn’t starting from scratch this time.
You had already taught me how to listen. How to watch. How to respect that every working dog is still an individual first. You showed me that partnership isn’t about molding a dog into a standard. It’s about understanding who they already are. From there, you build trust.
Because of you, I advocate better. I communicate better. I balance structure with play. I know that behind the red cape is still a dog. This dog needs joy, decompression, and room to just be themselves.
Surley benefits from the lessons you taught me.
And in that way, your impact didn’t end three years ago. It’s still here. It’s shaping how I lead and shaping how I love. It’s still walking beside me just in a different form.
Eight years ago, you were ready to do the job you were meant to do.
You helped me become ready, too.
And for that, for you, I will always be grateful.
In memory of Dempsey — my first partner, my brave beginning.
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