“Souris” — or mouse in French — was such a friend.

During the height of the financial crisis of 2008–2010, I found myself without work, a bit depressed, and trying to make it in a foreign country. I had few allies, but I was determined to find my way despite the mess in the markets.

Maria, my wife, had an idea. She had been planning it for about a year, waiting for the right moment. One day, while we were out shopping, she lured me into a pet shop and asked, “What do you think?”

“Think of what?” I replied.

She pointed toward a black-and-white Havanese Bichon.

“A dog? Why would we complicate our lives with a dog?” I asked. Just then, a little three-year-old girl cried out, “Mommy, mommy! I want this dog!”

Maria went into overdrive, giving me a look that needed no translation — a look that said, “If we don’t take this puppy, I might just leave you here.” I gave in. And so, Souris became “the thing we bought at the store.”

I mean, I liked dogs. I had dogs before. But in that moment of my life, I couldn’t see the point of caring for one.

I was wrong.

Souris became my personal assistant, my fitness coach, my antidepressant — and most of all, a precious friend.

She was part of our travels, always included in our plans — all 4.5 kilograms of her.

Dogs (and cats, although I’m no cat expert) are extraordinary beings. If you open your heart to them, if you truly love and care for them, they give you loyalty beyond this world. Their greatest fear is abandonment — and their greatest gift is devotion.

Souris was an integral part of our family. That may sound odd to some, but let’s remember humans have lived with pets for tens of thousands of years. In fact, dogs were first domesticated from wolves at least 15,000 years ago — and possibly as far back as 30,000 years. From the beginning, they’ve been our companions, protectors, and friends.

She was tough. But at 14, the vet confirmed what we already feared: her organs were failing. We weren’t ready to let her go. We tried medication, and for a while she managed well. But just before we left on a road trip, she began to weaken.

I kissed her goodbye and whispered, “Please wait for us, we’ll be back soon.”

The day before we returned, my mother-in-law called us in tears: Souris had passed away.

On the highway, Maria and I sat in silence. Eventually, we pulled over, called home, and then drove back as quickly as we could. We buried her in one of our favorite spots.

Maria chose not to see her — she wanted to remember her as she was. I did. As I looked into her eyes, I lost it and broke down. I thanked her for being such a precious friend, told her I loved her, and told her it was okay to rest.

It struck me then: in this life, we inevitably bury those we love. We are born of dust, and to dust we return. I was sad then, and I am still sad now.

People sometimes ask me, “Paul, why do you write?”

The easy answer is: to make people feel good. But the deeper truth is that writing helps me carry sorrow. I wrote when my parents passed away, and I write now for Souris. Writing is therapy for me.

I remind myself that Souris — like all living beings — has a soul. She is still with me.

Some years ago, I shared a passage from Neale Donald Walsh’s Conversations with God that comforts me still:

“When a loved one leaves the body, it is a cause for a genuine and special joy.
It can be difficult to feel joy over the death of a loved one, and sadness is natural.
Yet your Beloved is celebrating Continuation Day — the most glorious experience you can imagine. You will reunite with them, for their essence comes to you at your very thought.”

Having lost both of my parents, I believe this deeply. I still speak to my dad — he answers me in his witty, smart-aleck way, as if only a phone call away. My mom too, with her gentle, caring advice.

Life can feel unfair, and death is one of its harshest blows. Yet, as Neale reminds us, our loved ones are always with us. Our thoughts summon them.

He also taught me that all living beings — humans, animals, even plants — have souls. When he asked if animals have souls, God’s answer was simple:

“Look into the eyes of your favorite pet, and you tell me…if animals have souls?”

Finally, I love business, and I spend much of my time coaching leaders, often guiding them through difficult emotions.

This time, it is the coach speaking of his own emotions — and reminding us all how deeply beautiful it is to be human, and to cherish the animals who walk beside us as our most precious friends.