The Kona Moments

Stories of a dog who raised a boy into a man.

It’s been a year since Kona passed away. A whole year since I last felt her presence pressing against my leg as I stood at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee in the early morning silence.

For almost 12 years, our mornings started the same way. I’d shuffle half-asleep into the bathroom, splash some cold water on my face, and open the door to let her out. It was our routine. Simple and automatic. And yet, when she passed, that one part of the day … something so small .. was the first domino to fall.

Immediately, the mornings felt colder. The house a little too still.

I knew the day was approaching and suspected the grief would be hard, but I wasn’t prepared for the type of grief that came with losing Kona. She was my first true family dog. My first loss of a direct family member. Not in blood, but in bond. She was woven into everything. My career changes, my moves across the country, my divorce, marrying Felicia, my healing from alcohol addiction, my journey to becoming a man I could be proud of … She was there for all of it.

She knew me during the worst of it and still loved me. That’s the kind of loyalty only a dog can offer, and the kind of love that carves itself so deep into your spirit that when it’s gone, it doesn’t just hurt … it unravels something in you.

This is my attempt to bring the impact she made on my life to a wider audience … to put into writing how mans best friend defined my growth into the man, husband, father, and friend I’ve become.

It’s taken me days to get through this story … having to pause and wipe away the tears that form at nearly every sentence I type. But it’s an important one to share.

No one really tells you beforehand what happens at the end of a dog’s life. Had I known it would feel like my soul would be ripped out, and in its place a constant injection of incredible pain and grief, I might have never found Kona. Our paths crossed at what I later figured out was fate … it’s the only explanation I’ve been able to come up with.

“Saint Bernard Puppies”

I still remember seeing that ad on Craigslist back in 2012. It was a period in my life filled with emotional confusion on my part, and my inability to cope with it in a healthy way. I’d had dogs before this point but I’ve lost count of them all. It was as if I was a revolving door, taking in a dog or puppy for a few months before finding it a new home. I guess that was my immaturity in action, not quite ready for a commitment like that ... For a true family dog. Had you asked me back then I probably would have told you Kona wouldn’t make it off the island of Hawaii … almost guaranteed to meet a similar outcome that all the other Eyl dogs had.

Walking into the house where Kona was, it was a bit chaotic to say the least. At least 8 of her siblings immediately charged the door when I arrived, including what I can only describe as a bear like creature I would learn was the Dad. He had to be over 200 pounds easily, but he was very gentle, almost too much. As I was scratching his head, smiling at the puppies around my feet, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye … Kona.

At the time I picked her up, I don’t believe she had a name. My memory recalls them having their own collars with a unique color for identification. I’m not sure what color Kona’s was, but what did jump out to me in those first few moments of eye contact was the sense of calm she seemed to cast over the room. Unlike her siblings, Kona sat in the back of the room, her tail softly waging in excitement. As I got close, I met the Momma, who wasn’t quite as large as Dad, but was equally gentle and welcoming.

The traits I observed from both parents as well as Kona, helped me make the decision that Kona would fit into my home nicely. She was so calm, a stillness to her that in a lot of ways was needed at that point in my life, I just didn’t realize it yet. I would learn in the years that followed just how important the observations I made that day would be for the journey I needed to take.

The next 12 years were filled with moments … messy, hilarious, meaningful … that I’ve never forgotten. I call them The Kona Moments. I wrote a list of these out shortly after she passed, worried that I might forget all that we shared together. And over time, I plan to share some of those stories. Not just to remember her, but to relive the joy, the growth, and the way she quietly shaped me into who I am today.

In her final 18 months, Kona had slowed significantly. Losing her hearing was the first real sign of the aging creeping in, followed by the inability to stand up on her own, the Dr’s telling us it was due to severe arthritis … sticky socks, like the ones kids wear at the indoor trampoline parks, would need to be introduced to keep her from falling as she slowly, and very gingerly, walked around our home. Eating became an every other day occurrence, she preferring to just sleep instead of using the energy needed to stand up and go to her bowl.

It was a tough thing for me to witness in particular. Just a few years before we would run down our San Jose apartment hallway after our walks outside … her tail wagging, a playful little string of drool hanging from her mouth.

Later, in her final weeks, I would need to help carry her outside to go potty, her legs too fragile to climb the stairs or take more than a few steps before collapsing. The look in her eye as she starred up at me was heartbreaking … one that I could only believe meant she was tired, and ready for the Rainbow Bridge journey.

We’d spend a lot of time over those last few days outback in the yard, just the two of us. Me just holding her in what I inevitably knew was going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. The life talks, even if just one-sided, were coming to a close.

I wanted so badly for those moments to never end.

I remember every detail about August 8, 2024.

The way her panting sounded like an engine straining, the way her eyes searched the room, locking onto me and Felicia as if she already knew why we were there.

We were told the first injection would make her sleepy. The second would stop her heart. That’s how they explained it … soft, clinical, detached.

But there was nothing soft about it. My eyes had been filled with tears for hours leading up to it.

As the sedative took hold, I cradled her face, whispering the same reassurances I’d offered her a thousand times before. She slowly lowered her head, placing it on the floor in her usual spot. A familiar position in a moment that felt anything but.

And just like that, within a few minutes, she was gone.

No muscle twitches or spasms like they said might occur. Just a silent, aching stillness that filled the cold room and broke my heart.

I removed her brown leather collar for the last time, kissed the top of her head, and then stood up and walked out of the room. I was having a hard time even breathing in those immediate moments after, the flood of emotions so incredibly strong that I needed Felicia’s help to get back to the car. An empty car that had, just an hour earlier, been filled with the smell and pants of my Kona. It was the worst car ride of my life.

Coming home that first day without her I was in a state of shock … it had to be that. I felt numb and the house felt so empty.

She’d been the rhythm of my routines. The heartbeat of the home. Her absence was deafening. It didn’t matter how many times I reminded myself that she was at peace or that it was “the right thing” to do. Logic has no place in grief.

I didn’t think it was supposed to feel this disorienting, this heavy … but it did. Because she wasn’t just a dog. She was the thread that wove so many seasons of my life together.

The cross-country moves.
The late-night walks.
The strawberry snacks.
The sock surgeries.
The morning butt rubs.
The moments no one else saw.

There’s a difference between letting someone go and learning how to live without them. I’m still figuring that part out.

What would follow over the next 3 weeks were the loneliest days of my life. Felicia worked all day, and Dakota wasn’t born yet. The silence in the home would pierce my heart a million times an hour. The spots she used to lay in were now empty. Her food bowl no longer needing to be filled up. Her sticky socks lay on the floor, never to be filled again with her Frito smelling paws.

About a month later, I received a call that her ashes were ready for pickup. We elected to also have a cast of her paw print made, a symbol of sorts of the impact she had on our hearts. We placed her alongside other family members who have passed over the years, a special sort of space in our living room.

I’ve thought about when and where I might place those ashes down the road, a final resting place, but I’m not there yet. And honestly, I might never be ready.

Maybe it’s because of something I heard years ago and that’s been living in my head ever since: That we die three times.

First, when our body stops working.
Second, when we’re buried or cremated.
And third … when our name is spoken for the very last time.

That third one … that’s the one that gets me.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t let go fully. Maybe that’s why I still find comfort in seeing her name etched on the urn, her paw print cast in clay, her sticky socks tucked in a corner like she might still need them. Her food bowl still sitting in the same place.

Because some part of me believes that as long as I keep telling her stories, well, she hasn’t really finished her journey yet.

And maybe when the time does come … when I finally feel ready to lay her to rest … it won’t feel like letting go. It’ll feel like passing the stories forward, so she can keep living in the hearts of others too.

One year later, I’m doing better. But I still look for her.

In the quiet moments, in the corner of the room where the sunlight hits just right, I sometimes still expect to see her curled up, snoring away. Vacuuming our home I still find her hairballs, a subtle reminder that she’s still with us in spirit.

And maybe that’s the thing about grief. It doesn’t really end. It just finds new corners to live in. Softer ones. Less jagged.

But I’ll say this … Kona made me a better human. She guided me from being a clumsy, stubborn boy trying to figure out who he was, and into the man I have become. She was a witness to so many of my ups and downs.

In the months ahead, I plan to continue to share more of The Kona Moments. I hope those future entries feel lighter than this one … because they’re meant to. They’re snapshots of who she was … playful, weird, wise, loyal. And they’re stories about who I became because of her. Not just a better dog owner … but a better man, husband, father, and friend. If this piece is the goodbye, then The Kona Moments are all the beautiful hellos that came before it.

And while I’ll always miss her, I also know that the best way to honor her isn’t to live in sorrow … but to carry forward the quiet lessons she taught me … about loyalty, presence, joy, and unconditional love.

So that’s what I plan to do. I’ll keep writing about her. I’ll keep remembering. And piece by piece, through those short stories, I hope to show you the dog who helped me become everything I am.

I love you, Kona.
I always will.