The Dog Who Saved My Life; and His Final Lesson

How my best friend Henke taught me everything about love, life, and the courage to choose my own heart

There's a photo of Henke on my phone that I can't stop looking at.

That beautiful chow chow face. The one that made strangers stop in the street. The one that got him out of trouble a thousand times when he'd done something he absolutely knew he shouldn't do.

He's gone now. And I'm not sure I have the words for what that means.

But I'm going to try — not just for me, but for anyone who's ever lost a furry companion and wondered how something that "was just a pet" could crack their heart wide open.

Because Henke wasn't just a pet. He was my teacher. My mirror. My best friend through the darkest chapter of my life.

And his final lesson? It might be the most important thing he ever taught me.

The Dog Who Saw Me Through Cancer

In 2016, I was fighting for my life.

Cancer. The word that changes everything.

And through all of it — the fear, the uncertainty, the days when I didn't know if I'd make it — there was Henke. This needy, grumpy, high-maintenance, cold, and sometimes downright dangerous ball of fluff who loved me without condition.

He didn't care that I was sick. He didn't treat me differently. He still demanded his walks at the exact right time. Still squeaked at the window every night like Jon Snow guarding the Wall. Still grabbed his lead and tried to walk himself when I'd been inside too long.

He kept me here. Present. Alive.

Not through grand gestures, but through the ordinary magic of needing me to show up every single day.

15 Lessons From a Dog Who Knew More Than Most Humans

Back then, I wrote about what Henke was teaching me. I called him one of my biggest teachers — and I meant it.

Here's what that beautiful, stubborn soul showed me:

Break the rules. Henke did what he wanted, when he wanted. "HENKE... NO!!!" meant nothing to him. He'd look at me with sheer contempt as if to say "aaaaaaaand?" He made no apologies for being true to himself. How many times have we talked ourselves out of something we truly wanted because of someone else's opinion?

Don't apologise for others being offended. When I got angry with him, he'd just stare at me. No grovelling. No abandoning himself. He taught me that how others react is their issue and their free choice. Stay true to you.

Leave your mark everywhere. Once he learned to lift his leg, no lamppost in Perth was safe. Even when nothing but steam came out, he looked so proud. His message was clear: "I have been here and you should know it, for I am worth noticing."

Protect what you love. Every night, without fail, he'd guard our home. Growling at leaves, neighbours, cats, the wind itself. He was completely fearless in protecting his family. That courage reminded me to keep fighting through cancer.

Be inquisitive. His nose was in everything. He followed me everywhere. Wouldn't eat until he'd inspected my plate first. This inquisitive approach allowed him to learn — and reminded me that we're here to learn as much as we can about ourselves.

Have a routine. God help you if you messed with his feeding time or walking route. That high-pitched squeak of disapproval taught me that sustainable change requires daily habitual practice. Know your "whys" and protect them.

Eat real food. When Henke felt sick, he'd stop eating and just drink water. He'd let his body heal itself. He knew — better than most humans — that the body has everything it needs already built in. We've just forgotten how to listen.

Get outside. Anytime I'd been working too long, he'd run to the cupboard where I kept his lead and start crying. He valued sunlight, fresh air, and nature more than we do. He didn't play slave to workload or social media likes. He focused on what was actually necessary.

Make time to play. If I wasn't giving him enough attention, he'd nibble my socks, jump up for a play fight, squeak his toys. His lesson: no matter how busy your day, take time to laugh with your family. You won't wish for more hours at the office on your death bed.

Balance your time on your terms. If he wanted to rest or lie in a huff, he did so with no apology. He distributed his energy on his terms. You ARE number one.

Forgive instantly. No matter how stern a telling off he'd had, I always got the same welcome. Tail wagging, ears pinned back, jumping up for high tens. Life is too short to carry grudges. Let them go — you're only harming yourself.

Entertain others. When he had a crowd, he was Vegas-esque. Rolling over, giving a paw with a wink. You never know what someone else is going through. Your ability to make them smile might be the only bright spot in their day.

Play to your strengths. He was a head-turner and he knew it. He taught me to focus on what I do best, live in accordance with my values, and let go of competition.

Be unapologetically you. There was no other dog like Henke. He reminded me every day to embrace all my idiosyncrasies and uniqueness.

These weren't just cute observations. They were survival lessons. Delivered by a soul who loved me more purely than he judged me.

The Hardest Lesson Came Last

Here's what I haven't told anyone yet.

Henke didn't just die. He died teaching me something.

The situation with his health put me in an impossible position. One that involved my mother. One that required me to say no — to stand up for what I knew was right — even if it meant conflict with someone I'd spent my whole life trying to please.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't stand up to my mum to save Henke.

And he died anyway.

His final gift was showing me that choosing love over people-pleasing is literally a matter of life and death.

Not metaphorically. Actually.

He showed me that a deeper part of my mother wound needed to heal — not just for me, but for any chance of the family I'm building with Samantha. He did whatever it took for me to get the lesson.

Even if it cost him everything.

The liver issues weren't lost on me either. The liver holds anger and resentment in the body. Maybe he was carrying some of mine. Maybe his final act was releasing what I'd been holding toward my mum for years.

I don't know. But I feel it.

What Unconditional Love Actually Looks Like

When we lose an animal companion, we're not just grieving a pet.

We're mourning the loss of pure, unconditional love. A being who loved us without condition, without judgment, without asking us to be anything other than exactly who we are.

The depth of grief reflects the depth of love. If it hurts this much, it's because the love was that real.

Our companions teach us:

• Presence over performance — They loved us for being, not doing

• Authenticity over perfection — They saw our real self and loved what they saw

• Joy in simple moments — They found bliss in walks, treats, and our attention

• Forgiveness without grudges — They held no resentments, only love

• Living fully now — They weren't worried about tomorrow or yesterday

Every moment of love they gave us was a lesson in how to love ourselves and others.

The Guilt Is Love With Nowhere To Go

If you're carrying guilt about a companion you've lost, hear this:

• You loved them the best way you knew how.

• Perfect decisions don't exist in impossible situations.

• They knew they were loved — animals feel love more purely than judgment.

• You gave them a life filled with more love than many beings ever receive.

The guilt you're feeling? That's actually love with nowhere to go. Transform it into gratitude for the time you had together.

What Henke Would Say If He Could

I believe, truly believe, that if Henke could talk to me now, he'd say:

"Thank you for giving me a life filled with love. Thank you for the walks, the treats, the times you talked to me like I understood every word — because I did.

I'm not gone. I'm just not in that body anymore. Every time you think of me with love instead of sadness, I'm there. Every time you choose love over fear, you're living what I taught you.

Don't carry guilt about my leaving. Carry forward the love we shared.

Live the way I loved you — fully, presently, without condition. That's how you honour me."

Don't Let His Death Be For Nothing

Henke saved my life multiple times. Through cancer. Through depression. Through the lonely nights when the world felt too heavy.

His final lesson was teaching me how to save my own life by choosing my heart over others' expectations.

So here's what I'm going to do. And maybe you need to hear this too:

Don't let their death be for nothing.

Learn to say no to everything that isn't love.

Stand up for what matters — even when it's terrifying.

Let go of the anger and resentment that's been stored in your body.

And above all, remember that love is all there is. Even when processing the shadow human aspects that hurt.

The Love Lives On

Your companion's death is not the end of your relationship. It's a transformation.

The love doesn't die when the body dies. That bond, that connection, that pure love you shared — that lives forever.

They're not waiting somewhere sad and lonely. They're free, whole, and still connected to you through the love you carry forward.

The greatest tribute to your beloved companion is to live the way they loved you.

Unconditionally. Presently. Fully.

Henke taught me that life is simple! We are the ones who complicate it.

He taught me to break rules, protect what matters, forgive instantly, and be unapologetically myself.

And in the end, he taught me that sometimes love requires the hardest choices of all.

I miss you, little man.

Thank you for everything.

Now it's my turn to live what you taught me.

"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." — Anatole France

In loving our animal companions, we discover the purest part of ourselves. In grieving them, we honour the depth of that discovery. In moving forward, we carry their love as our compass.

If you're grieving a beloved companion and need support processing the loss, I see you. The pain is real because the love was real. Comment below or DM me; sometimes we just need someone to witness our grief.