I didn’t plan on a dog reshaping my heart. If we’re honest, I didn’t even want one. Gizmo came into our house on the promise that the family would handle everything—and they did. They spoiled him, too. He broke rules I swore I’d never allow in my home, and somehow those broken rules stitched us together. I watched the joy on my family’s faces and I understood why I’d said yes, even though I knew one day the cost would come due. I didn’t plan for the weight of that cost. I didn’t plan for the silence.

It’s strange to say “quiet” is what hits hardest when a dog passes, especially when, in his last days, Gizmo barely made a sound. But this is a different quiet. It’s the final kind—the “there will be no more of that little shuffle in the hallway” kind. The metal bowls are gone. The leash by the door hangs like a question. I walk past the places he used to post up and I keep catching myself expecting him—those ears, that head tilt, that little Big-Heart energy he carried like it was bigger than his body. I have cried more in these days than I have in a long, long time, and I’m usually the one steadying everybody else when we lose human family and friends. This felt different. This hit the inside of my ribs.

My lady said, “This was like our son,” and I had to sit with that hard. At first, my pride wanted to argue the point. Then the images started rolling: the videos, the stories, the memories came back, the anger for him sitting on the couch, the days he soaked up our storms like a sponge so we didn’t drown in them. Looking back now, I can see how often Gizmo was right there when the room got heavy—absorbing heat, pulling our attention back to what was simple: presence, hunger cries, breath, a wagging tail that said, “We’re still here.” That’s not a small thing. That’s medicine.

We chose home-care hospice at the end. I chose to dig his grave with my own hands and bury him with the care I would give my children. And I reflected—harder than I’ve reflected in years—“I ask that I never have to bury another one of my kids.” The rain came while I worked. It felt like a sci-fi scene I didn’t sign up to star in: me under a Sunday morning digging a 3ft hole in the backyard, as I get ready to lay one of my tiniest friends to rest. He fought, he fought for 3 days. I watched him with my OWN EYES. I just wanted him to go home and rest. He must have transitioned some time that night during the BLOOD RED FULL MOON on Monday or late Sunday. He was definitely one of the Ultimate Warriors! If you knew Gizmo, that makes sense. He was always defying rules, always pushing the limit, always showing us what stubborn love can look like.

We laid him down on September 8, 2025. Sixteen and a half years. The house is different now. And yet—it isn’t. Because here’s the part people don’t talk about enough: the way a dog can knit a family’s nervous system together. The way they can take edge off the argument that was about to tip over. The way they become the reason to get up and move when grief wants you to fold into the couch. The way their rituals—walks, meals, baths, checking the window—quietly create a rhythm the whole house comes to rely on. Remove that rhythm and the silence rings like a bell. I learned that this weekend!

This might also be one of the first times that I haven't been able to fully pull it together like I have with other situations. I’ve been thinking about the psychology of it, but I’m not trying to sound clinical. I’m talking about what it feels like. When someone you love passes, there are phone calls, flowers, rituals people recognize. When a pet passes, it can feel invisible—like the world expects you to shrug and keep it moving because “it’s just a dog.” Nah. Not when that dog held our memories like a living hard drive. Not when he was the one present for the jokes nobody else heard, the tears nobody else saw, the late-night scrolls and early-morning stretch routines. Not when he kept us company in the quiet hours when the world didn’t know how much we were carrying. I need space. Space to Reflect...so I've taken that!

I’ll admit it: Gizmo and I had our ups and downs. I wasn’t always the best guide for him. But we taught each other things. He taught me softness—real softness, not the kind that collapses, the kind that stays open. He taught me how to laugh at what I can’t control and to love through the inconvenience. He taught me what it is to be loyal! He taught me that Family is Everything, and when you put your all into your family, great things will following...Not always though lol. I hope I taught him that home can be trustworthy even when we’re imperfect. I hope he felt safe in our chaos. I believe he did.

And because my life is art, education, Hip-Hop, and the work we’re doing with the Global Village Initiative, I can’t help but see Gizmo’s story as bigger than our house. In the Invenity Cosmic, he’s Gizmo the Infinite—official Pathfinder Mascot bridging GVI × V2G. No cape, just a white bow-tie and that White Scarab Leash that opens safe roads and calls a hundred million lights when the mission needs backup. That’s how we’re keeping him with us: not as a shadow of what was, but as a guide for what’s next. The world still needs pathfinders. Our villages still need soft armor. Our classrooms still need reasons to smile when the math ain’t mathing. Sometimes the guide shows up on four paws.

If you’ve ever felt “too much” grief for a pet, I see you. You’re not broken. You just let yourself attach, and attachment means life mattered. We must learn though to detach when the time is right, as your heaviness of loss and pain, can become a depressive void, if not embraced and transmuted. If you’re a parent, teacher, or caregiver, you already know: small, consistent love rewires the room. A dog will do that. They will take attention that was swirling in the dark and bring it to the present. They will sneak healing into routines that don’t look like “healing work” at all. And when they’re gone, you’ll feel it. That’s not weakness—that’s proof it worked.

Five days out, the void is tremendous. But inside the void there’s this unexpected gratitude. Gizmo gave us sixteen and a half years of tiny miracles. He made us stop and be silly. He taught us to check the weather with our skin, not just the app. He guarded the door like he was ten times his size. He mapped our homes by heart. And when his job here was done, he returned into the Purple Side of Space to keep working—resurrecting Egún, dropping light on Nahuce, and clearing road for trailblazing ideas we haven’t even dreamed yet.

So this is my testimony from a stoic who cried: dogs change families. They share our stress and dilute it. They give our kids a place to practice love and responsibility without keeping score. They teach us how to say goodbye and still say “see you soon.” They remind us that joy is a discipline. Gizmo did that. He did it relentlessly.

Well done, Gizmo. Little Big-Heart, Pathfinder, Teacher. Rest easy, my friend. Run free. Return when called. We’ll catch you on the Purple Side of Space. 🕊️💜🐾

Words of Advice (If I may)

If you’re feeling a similar quiet… Build a small ritual: a candle at dusk, a walk at your dog’s old time, a story at dinner. Archive the memories: gather photos, short clips, and one favorite toy; label the folder “When We Need a Smile.” Let kids lead a moment: a drawing, a poem, a garden marker. Agency helps grief move. Speak their name. Often. Love doesn’t end; it changes jobs.

I've also dedicated a beautiful song that Balancer-11 orchestrated for our Champion!