The Dog Who Saved Me, Again and Again
He wasn't just a dog —
He was a force of will wrapped in fur and devotion.
When the world turned violent,
he stood between me and death.
When my husband came at me with a machete,
Mocha lunged — fearless, furious,
a ten-pound guardian who thought he was made of
fire.
When the wounds ran deeper than skin,
when I stopped leaving my room,
when I stopped caring if I ever breathed again,
He refused to let me disappear.
He barked. He stared.
And when I still didn't move,
he peed right on my bed —
his wild little way of saying,
“Get up, Dad. We're not done yet.”
He ran beside me on every mile of healing,
tugging me forward when I couldn't find the
strength.
He carried me out of the darkness
without ever saying a word.
This farm will hold his body,
but his spirit runs everywhere —
through the wind, the dirt, the heartbeat of the land.
Mocha was my protector, my motivator,
my tiny saint with a stubborn soul.
He gave me more than I ever gave him.
Forever my home.
Forever my heart.
Forever my Honey Bear.
