I didn’t anticipate crying so much. Not with all those folks around. However, something inside of me broke as my uncle’s former K9 partner, Rex, leaped atop the coffin.
As rugged as they come, Uncle Mateo was a battle veteran. After serving two deployments, he returned home with a jet-black German Shepherd named Rex, who very likely saved his life on multiple occasions. After then, they couldn’t be apart. Even after he left the military, Rex continued to work in search and rescue for five more years. We all expected that Rex would be devastated by Uncle Mateo’s death from a heart issue. However, I wasn’t prepared for what really transpired.
The service was polite and calm. Flag presentation, military honors, etc. I believe I left nail marks on my mother’s hand from grasping it so tightly while we were standing together. Someone released Rex from his container as they wheeled the casket into position. He initially only approached slowly while sniffing the air as if unsure of Mateo’s location.
Then he leaped. Straight to the coffin. He lay across the top with his head tucked by the folded flag, whimpering heavily and painfully without barking or growling. The audience fell silent. Then the noise began. Weeping grown guys. My cousin collapsed on the ground. The priest had to stop, too.
Then, for some reason that I still don’t understand, Rex began pawing at the coffin as if he wanted to get inside.
The funeral director hurried up and attempted to remove him at that point.
However, I moved in between them.
“You dare not,” I said.
Because Rex’s next action altered the day and, in many respects, my life.
As though pleading with me to assist him in finding Uncle Mateo, Rex gazed at me with this unadulterated grief in his eyes. Rex refused to comprehend Mateo’s absence, despite the fact that the casket was sealed. Whimpering as though he were awaiting a response, he nuzzled the polished wood.
Around us, people started to move uneasily. “We still have to continue,” the funeral director said, clearing his voice and whispering in my ear. There is a timetable. However, I couldn’t allow them to simply take Rex away. Not after his devotion to my uncle. Strangely, it was like allowing them to take away a piece of Uncle Mateo.
I extended my hand. I said, “Give him a moment.” “He is deserving of that much.”
So they did. Rex was given a moment of quiet when the honor guard, two men in immaculate uniforms who had just finished handing the folded flag, bent their heads. In fact, one of them was crying. Only Rex, the coffin, and the reverberation of all my uncle’s sacrifices were audible in that suspended silence.
After almost a minute, Rex finally descended gently, his tail drooping. He hobbled over to me and rubbed his face against my knees. He had previously taken a bullet for my uncle and still walked with a tiny hitch in his rear limb. I knelt down and touched his head tenderly. As if he remembered me from all the evenings I spent at my uncle’s house, his ears perked up.
The director let out a sigh of relief. I swear I hardly heard the taps and last salute, which marked the continuation of the funeral’s formal section. I was only able to concentrate on Rex’s heartbeat under my hand.
The subsequent reception was odd. Uncle Mateo was the subject of everyone’s stories, including how he taught my younger cousin to ride a bike, made them laugh, and never backs down from a task. As I moved between the groups, my gaze kept going to the calm spot where Rex was sitting. Ms. Castillo, a neighbor, attempted to feed Rex some leftover ham, but he ignored her. He was still searching for the man he had vowed to protect, as if he were in a different reality.
My mother came up and put a hand on my shoulder at that point. She whispered, “You know he needs someone.”
I understood her meaning. My uncle had been the legal owner of Rex, but with my uncle’s passing, the dog need a new home. I was going to remark, “Perhaps Aunt Cecilia will take him,” but as I looked across the room, I saw her distraught, numb face; she most likely couldn’t bear to add the burden of a retired K9 to her own pain. No one else in the family had the room or time for a dog with Rex’s enthusiasm and experience, and my cousin was just sixteen.
I came to the realization that I wanted to be the one. Uncle Mateo, who was always there to support me at my baseball games and to reassure me that failure was acceptable as long as I got back up, had been like a second father to me. What about Rex? He had Rex in him. a testament to his love and service.
I nodded to my mother. She probably knew what I was going to do.
After two days, I took Rex home. It was more complicated than simply opening the door and let him entry. He was accustomed to a demanding routine that included advanced obedience exercises, daily runs with Uncle Mateo, and an early wake-up time. He appeared depressed today, though. If he couldn’t find my uncle’s boots or jacket anywhere, he would sniff about my tiny flat and whimper. He spent the entire night lying next to the old, dusty Army duffle bag that belonged to my uncle and that I kept in the closet.
After a week, I became concerned. Rex did not eat much. His tail would never wag, but he would get up and accompany me to the kitchen. It remained low, as if he were always waiting for my uncle to give him an order that would never come.
At that point, I decided to take him back to Uncle Mateo’s land, which is an ancient ranch outside of town. After describing the situation to Aunt Cecilia and a few officials, I was given the all-clear to enter after signing some paperwork. I thought it could be therapeutic for Rex to visit the location where he had been happiest, but she couldn’t stand to be there, saying it was too painful.
It was late afternoon when we got there. The dusty yard was bathed in a warm glow as the sun descended behind the barn. As soon as we pulled in, Rex’s ears pricked up. My uncle had set up a little obstacle course at the old training field, and he trotted toward it after getting out of the car and sniffing the ground. There was still a line of cones, a couple of A-frames, and a temporary wall.
I stood back and watched Rex come closer. He smelled the wall’s bottom rung before turning to face me and asking, “Are we going to do this or what?”
Remembering all the times I’d watched Uncle Mateo practice with him made my heart race. For “go,” they used a unique term. Rather than using the standard command “attack,” my uncle would say “Avanza.” It meant “advance” in Spanish, but Uncle Mateo’s voice conveyed a lot of meaning: keep going, never stop, and keep moving forward.
I inhaled. “Rex, Avanza,” I called quietly.
And he did. With unexpected ease for a dog his age, Rex ran toward the wall, jumped over it, and then bounded through the cones. His tail finally wagging, he turned and ran back to me. It seemed like traveling back in time for the next hour. With a focus I hadn’t seen since before the funeral, Rex obeyed my basic directions, the ones I remembered from years of watching them train.
As I ran with him, sweat poured down my neck. At dusk, both of us fell heavily, gasping for air, against the barn wall. For the first time since my uncle’s burial, Rex sighed in satisfaction as he pressed his nose against my shoulder. He seemed to have come to terms with Mateo’s departure, but he was not alone in the world.
I also became aware of how much I needed this while we sat there. I felt like I was losing a piece of myself when I lost my uncle, but I found a sort of purpose in caring for Rex and respecting that connection. There was more to my uncle’s legacy than the folded flag, anecdotes, and medals. It was love, devotion, and the determination to move on despite the wounds we bore.
There was a new normal to life. Rex got used to living in my flat. He wasn’t the type of dog that would always leap up on the sofa and wag his tail, but he would hug me if I was having a rough day or encourage me to go for a run when the moment was right. On certain evenings, when I woke up, he was sitting at the window, silently observing the street below like though he were keeping watch.
As the months went by, I realized that my uncle’s memory had permanently altered not just me. Lieutenant O’Dell, an old friend of my uncle, contacted me to inform me that Uncle Mateo will be the name of a new K9 training facility. They asked if I would attend the dedication ceremony with Rex. I consented, assuming it would be a straightforward occasion—the unveiling of a little plaque. However, it became a celebration of the community. There were veterinarians from all over. Those who had served alongside my uncle talked about his bravery, his heart, and his commitment to helping others.
My voice began to falter when it was my turn to speak. I was able to explain how Uncle Mateo had treated Rex until he was enlisted as a legitimate K9 after discovering him hungry and hurt abroad. As I talked, I placed my hand on Rex’s back and glanced down at him. It dawned on me then that we were still healing one another.
Applause and tears marked the ceremony’s conclusion. When a local newspaper reporter took pictures of Rex outside the new training field, everyone was amazed at how calm he stayed and how kind he was to children who stopped to pet him.
I let my thoughts to wander on the way home. “Avanza” was the one word that kept coming up. Keep going, never stop, and keep moving forward. It was a whisper in the air, conveyed by my uncle’s spirit, assuring us both that everything will be alright.
I finally fell asleep without waking up that night. Rex and I ate breakfast together in the morning. Through the window, the sun shone. I felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. Though love—the kind my uncle had for Rex and the kind Rex still feels for him—lingers, loss never truly goes away. It provides us with motivation to get up every day and keep going in spite of the emptiness we occasionally experience.
I want to leave you with this: sometimes the strongest ties can help us get back on our feet after experiencing loss. By continuing their spirit, remaining devoted to the people (and dogs) who support us, and never forgetting to move forward, we pay tribute to those who came before us. Love is deeper and won’t allow us to remain in the dark forever, no matter how hard grief strikes.
If this story resonated with you, please tell your friends and family about it. Don’t forget to hit “like.” Remember that devotion and hope can illuminate even the darkest pathways, and you never know who might need to read these words.
