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Song : Where The Wild Things Are - Luke Combs

I t had been four months since Jon and I returned to my parent’s old house—four months of falling asleep to the croak of Texas cicadas and waking up next to the man who made every chaotic moment of my past feel like a faded photo.

We were happy. Genuinely, peacefully, deliciously happy.

Jon fixed things around the house with his cowboy know-how, Nacho had declared war on every squirrel in the zip code, and I—well, I was just trying to keep my plants alive and avoid heatstroke before noon.

But Texas summers don’t just melt your skin off—they mess with your heart, too.

Ranger, my fifteen-year-old four-legged son, had been slowing down the past few months.

Stairs had become Everest, and naps were his entire personality.

But still, he was my boy. The one I adopted when I was twenty, with a crooked ear and eyes that always looked like he was judging you (because he was).

The one who’d slept by my side through every breakup, heartbreak, and bad haircut.

The one who never left, even when people did.

So when he got bit by a brown recluse spider in the garage, we thought it’d be a quick fix.

A shot here, an antibiotic there. He was tough—he once stole and swallowed a whole chicken wing and walked it off like it was nothing.

But this time, the meds weren’t working.

The swelling never went down. His bark got quiet.

His eyes lost that little spark. So we knew. We just… knew.

Jon had the truck running early that morning. “We’ll just get the vet to drain it,” he said gently, rubbing Ranger’s head as he helped him into the back seat with a soft blanket.

“He’ll feel better soon, baby.” I nodded, pretending not to notice how still Ranger already looked .

The ride was mostly quiet, except for the local radio station playing 2000s country hits and Jon cracking a joke about the weather, which was so hot it felt like the devil’s armpit.

We were five minutes away. Just five. I turned around to check on him.

And he was gone. Just like that—no warning, no sound. Just… stillness.

I think I screamed before I could even process what had happened. A raw, guttural sound ripped out of me that startled Nacho into the front seat and made Jon slam the brakes. “What? What is it?” he said, panicking.

“He’s gone!” I cried, voice shaking.

“Oh my God, Jon, he’s gone, he’s gone!” Jon pulled over, right there by a Waffle House, and held me while I sobbed into his chest like the world had just split open.

My arms reached into the back seat, grabbing at his little sweater, his collar—anything.

Anything to make it not real. I called my parents, choking out the words:

“Ranger just died.” My dad was silent. My mom sobbed.

They’d loved him like he was one of their own.

Because he was. When we finally pulled up to the vet, the nurses were already outside waiting.

One of them, a soft-eyed woman with silver hair and a pink stethoscope, approached the truck like she was walking toward a funeral.

“We’ll take good care of him,” she said gently.

“You can say goodbye.”

They brought out a soft blanket and carried him in like he was royalty. I kissed his head. Jon whispered something into his fur. Even the vet cried. He’d been seeing Ranger for over a decade.

“He was a good boy,” he said, his voice catching.

“One of the best.” We signed the forms for cremation. They would place his ashes in a wooden box with his name engraved. I asked if we could include his favorite toy—an old rubber duck that barely had a beak left. The vet said yes. I nearly broke down again.

The drive home was excruciating. I didn’t speak. I just clutched his collar and little blue sweater like they were oxygen. Nacho was quiet, too, as if he knew. I swear he did. He curled up in the back seat and looked out the window with eyes too sad for a dog who usually got excited about bugs.

Back at the house, everything felt wrong.

The air was too still. The silence was too loud.

And then I saw it: the boxes. All of them, stacked by the front door, are labeled in Sharpie.

Kitchen. Bedroom. Delilah’s Chaos. We were supposed to be moving soon—leaving the heat and heartbreak of Texas for a place that felt like it was pulled from a dream.

Essexville. A small harbor town on Lake Huron with a white lighthouse, charming diners, and summers that didn’t feel like you were walking on the surface of the sun.

It was perfect. Jon found the house—a two-story colonial with a wraparound porch, creaky wood floors, and space for the life we were building.

For Nacho, and Buttercup and Spice, my two ridiculous cats.

For the future. Ranger was supposed to go with us.

I sat on the floor, the sweater still in my lap, and just wept. Jon dropped next to me, wrapping his arms around me and pressing his forehead to mine.

“He knew he was loved,” Jon whispered.

“Every single day.”

“I just… I thought we’d have more time.”

“I know, baby.” He kissed my temple.

“Me too.”

As if the universe couldn’t let me sit in peace with my grief, my phone buzzed. An Instagram notification. Of course. Patricia.

Unhinged Post #1:

“I know for a FACT someone put pumpkin spice essential oil on my pillow to trigger my aura. I’m not saying names but it rhymes with Meanine.”

(Translation: Jeanine. Obviously.)

Unhinged Post #2:

“I had a dream that a golden retriever tried to tell me my chakras were off and then bit my knee. Dreams are REAL. Let that sink in.”

Unhinged Post #3:

“Not everyone who wears pearls is classy. Some people are just trying to suffocate their demons in designer.” I turned my phone to Jon.

“Your ex-step-sister-in-law has officially lost all grip on reality.” He squinted.

“What the hell does a dream dog have to do with chakras?”

“Exactly.” It made me laugh, for just a second. The kind of absurd, nose-snort laugh that bursts out through tears. Jon smiled.

“There’s my girl.”

Later that evening, my best friend Christine finally arrived in Houston. She’d been watching the cats for us while we prepped the move. When she walked in and saw my face, she just opened her arms.

“I brought snacks and wine and I’m ready to cry with you.”

We sat on the couch, the three of us—me, Jon, Christine—and Nacho curled up at our feet, watching us like he was the new sheriff in town.

I told her everything. She cried with me.

We laughed at memories of Ranger eating Jon’s socks.

Jon reminded me of the time Ranger chased a raccoon right into the neighbor’s pool and strutted out like a hero.

And then Jon said something that stuck in my chest.

“He was your first real constant,” he said quietly.

“But you’ve got a new one now. I’m not going anywhere.”

That night, I went into my room and lit a candle by the window.

I placed his collar next to it and whispered goodnight.

The house felt different. Quieter. Heavier.

But I knew he was still here. In every echo.

In every floor creak. In every hair that would never be fully vacuumed off the couch.

We’d be leaving soon. Headed for a cooler, softer place.

A fresh start by the water. Me, Jon, Nacho, Buttercup, and Spice.

But no Ranger. It was the saddest day of my life.

And also, somehow, the start of a brand-new chapter. To be continued…