THE SUNDAY LETTER

If you've ever loved a dog, you know they somehow become so much more than a pet.

They become part of the rhythm of your home.

They greet you at the door after a long day. They quietly sit at your feet while you work. They know when something is wrong before you ever say a word.

For five years, that was Kobe. A 120-pound Cane Corso with a bark that could shake the front windows and convince just about anyone to think twice before approaching our door.

Unless you were family. Then you'd discover who Kobe really was.

Gentle.

Patient.

Loyal.

He had one job in his mind—to protect the people he loved.

UPS drivers, the mail carrier, the landscapers... they all got the full security treatment. But inside our home, Kobe was simply a big baby.

Especially with me.

No matter where I went, Kobe wasn't far behind. If I walked into another room, he'd quietly follow. Every morning, before I opened my bedroom door, I already knew where he'd be.

Waiting.

As if his day couldn't officially begin until mine did.

It became such an ordinary part of life that I never imagined one day I'd open that door and he wouldn't be there.

I still think about that.

What surprised me most after losing Kobe wasn't just my own grief.

It was watching each of our children grieve so differently.

As parents, we spend so much time trying to help our children navigate life's biggest emotions, but no one really teaches you what that looks like.

Chloe wore her grief where everyone could see it.

There were tears. Lots of them. She missed her protector.

Kobe somehow always knew when she needed him. If she was in her room, that's where he'd go. If he had gotten into trouble for something, he'd run straight to Chloe's room as if she might negotiate a lighter sentence.

She still talks about him. She still misses him.

Nicholas surprised me. He loved Kobe deeply.

If you ever walked into our home, there was a good chance you'd find Nicholas was wrestle with a dog some would consider ferocious

Kobe always played gently.

But after we lost him, Nicholas didn't cry. At least not where we could see. His grief turned inward.

Watching him reminded me that silence doesn't mean someone isn't hurting. Sometimes it simply means they're carrying it differently.

Isaiah cried.

He let his emotions come freely that day at the veterinarian's office. But somehow, when we left, he left much of his grief there too. He carried the memory. Not the daily weight of it.

Jay also cried.

He had become Kobe's second caretaker over the years. Whenever I wasn't home, Jay made sure Kobe was fed and cared for.

Love often looks like ordinary responsibility.

I don't think he realized how much those small routines had become part of his life until they were gone.

Jermaine misses Kobe in a way only another protector probably can understand.

There was comfort in knowing Kobe was always watching.

Always listening. Always alert.

The house feels different without that quiet presence.

And then there was me.

I still miss him. More often than I expected.

Every now and then I'll catch myself looking toward the hallway, almost expecting to see a giant black dog following me from room to room.

Grief has a funny way of showing up in ordinary moments.

It's rarely the big anniversaries that catch you off guard.

It's opening a door. Walking into an empty room. Reaching for routines that no longer exist.

As painful as it was, watching our family grieve reminded me of something I hope I never forget.

There isn't one right way to love.

And because of that...

There isn't one right way to grieve.

Some people cry.

Some people become quiet.

Some want to talk.

Some don't know what to say at all.

The greatest gift we can give the people we love isn't telling them how they should grieve.

It's simply making room for however grief finds them.

Behind the Lens

As photographers, we're often invited into some of life's happiest moments.

But we've also learned something unexpected.

Photographs become even more meaningful after life changes.

This week, I found myself scrolling through the hundreds of pictures we took of Kobe over the years.

More than 500 photographs.

Some were beautifully composed.

Others were blurry snapshots taken on a phone because he was doing something funny.

Today, I honestly can't tell you which ones were professionally taken.

I just know I'm grateful we have them.

Because every single one tells part of his story.

And part of ours.

Sunday Reflection

Is there someone in your life who may be grieving differently than you expected?

Maybe they don't need advice.

Maybe they simply need permission to feel what they feel—and to know they're not alone.

This Week's Portrait

This week isn't a portrait of a client.

It's one of Kobe.

A photograph that, at the time, felt completely ordinary.

Today, it feels priceless.

Sometimes the photographs we treasure most are the ones we never imagined we'd need.

Around Our Table

This week we're grateful for: The five years we had with Kobe and every memory he gave our family.

This week we're learning: Love leaves an imprint on every heart—but grief doesn't look the same in every person.

This week we're looking forward to: Making new memories together while continuing to cherish the old ones.

Until Next Sunday

If you've experienced loss recently, whether of a family member, a friend, or a beloved pet, we hope you know there is no timeline for healing.

Be gentle with yourself.

Be patient with those you love.

And don't underestimate the comfort found in remembering.

Thank you for sharing a small piece of our family's story today.

Until next Sunday,

Catron & Jermaine Turner
JPix Studio

"How lucky we are to have loved something so deeply that saying goodbye hurts this much."

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