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On July 5, 2025, I said goodbye to my best friend. His name was Thor.
It’s strange how a year can pass so quickly and yet still leave you feeling like a part of your heart is frozen in time. There are moments when I still expect to hear his paws on the floor behind me or feel him brush against my leg as I make coffee in the morning. Sometimes I catch myself looking toward the front door, half expecting him to come trotting inside with his favorite ball in his mouth.
People say time heals all wounds. I don’t think that’s true.
Time teaches you how to carry them.
Thor came into my life as a fluffy Golden Retriever puppy, full of curiosity and joy. Like most Golden Retrievers, he loved everyone. He had an uncanny ability to make strangers smile. We’d walk through town or down the beach, and people couldn’t help but stop to tell me how beautiful he was. They’d ask if they could pet him, and Thor never met a person he didn’t think was a friend.
We lived just across the street from the dog beach in Ormond Beach, Florida, and he knew exactly where we were going every time we picked up his leash. He would practically lead me there, tail wagging the entire way.
He wasn’t much of a swimmer, but he loved to wade into the surf just enough to cool his paws before racing back onto the sand. More than anything, he loved his tennis ball. It didn’t matter where we were or what else was happening—if he had his ball, life was good.
Looking back now, those ordinary days became the moments I cherish most.
Then, one morning, our lives changed forever.
I woke to find Thor having a seizure.
I had worked for a neurologist for years. If anyone should have been prepared for something like that, I thought it would have been me, but nothing prepares you for watching it happen to someone you love.
The Seizure Lasted Minutes, The Fear Lasted Months
From that day forward, epilepsy became part of our daily lives.
Our world revolved around medications, specialists, emergency hospitals, blood work, and carefully planned routines. Every dosage or missed meal mattered. Every subtle change in his behavior made me wonder if another seizure was coming.
I learned to recognize things most people would never notice—a certain look in his eyes, a slight change in how he walked, moments when he seemed just a little different.
Hope became measured in days without a seizure.
‘He’s gone another week.’
Then another month.
Maybe we found the right medication.
Maybe this one will work.
Then another seizure would come, and we’d start over.
Most people saw the happy Golden Retriever. They saw the dog running down the beach, wagging his tail, carrying his ball. They didn’t see the nights spent sleeping lightly because I was afraid I wouldn’t hear him if he seized. They didn’t see the medication schedules taped around my life or the emergency plans rehearsed in my head over and over again.
One morning stands out more than any other.
Thor wasn’t a cuddler. As much as I wished he were, he usually preferred to sleep nearby rather than pressed against me. But that morning, he climbed into bed and lay back-to-back with me.
I woke up to him having a seizure beside me and rushed him to the emergency hospital.
I didn’t know then that it was the beginning of the hardest chapter of our journey.
Epilepsy is cruel because it gives you hope just often enough that you believe tomorrow might be different.
We fought with everything we had for months, celebrating every seizure-free stretch, no matter how short, because when you love a dog with epilepsy, you learn to celebrate the smallest victories.
Despite everything he was carrying, Thor never stopped being Thor.
He still greeted people with excitement, still insisted on bringing me his ball.
He still looked at me with complete trust, as if I could fix anything.
That trust was both the greatest gift and the greatest responsibility I’ve ever known. As the months passed, one question kept finding its way into my thoughts:
What if something happened when I wasn’t there?
What If…?
What if Thor got loose?
What if he had a seizure while another family member was watching him?
How would they know what to do?
His collar carried my phone number. His microchip could identify him—but only if someone thought to take him to a veterinary clinic or shelter to have it scanned.
Thor couldn’t tell a stranger that he had epilepsy. He couldn’t explain which medications he took or where to find them, or which neurologist knew his case.
Those ‘what ifs’ never left me.
The Day Every Pet Owner Dreads
After months of fighting with incredible strength, Thor lost his battle with epilepsy.
Suddenly, my life was divided into ‘before’ and ‘after.’
The house became unbearably quiet.
His leash still hung by the door.
His toys were exactly where he’d left them.
I couldn’t bring myself to move them.
Grief isn’t just sadness.
It’s realizing that the routines you built your life around disappeared overnight.
People asked me if I would get another dog, but what they didn’t understand is that another dog could never replace Thor. Love doesn’t work that way.
As the weeks turned into months, I found myself returning to the thoughts that had haunted me throughout Thor’s illness. Some things are beyond our control, but maybe there was a way to make sure another family wouldn’t have to worry that critical information would be unavailable during an emergency.
That Idea Became Bark-ID.
I wasn’t looking to start a business or be known for inventing something. But grief has a remarkable way of asking you one impossible question:
‘Now what?’
For me, the answer became honoring the dog who had given me so much.
Everything I’ve built over the past year in creating Bark-ID: The World’s Smartest Dog Tag has been my way of making sure Thor’s life continues to matter.
His legacy isn’t a product; it’s the love that inspired it.
If you’ve ever loved a dog, you understand that they leave paw prints on more than your floors.
They leave them on your routines. Your memories. Your heart.
Thor taught me patience, resilience, and he taught me how fiercely we can love another living creature.
And in losing him, he taught me that grief and gratitude can exist together.
I still miss him every single day, and I probably always will. But when I think about Thor now, I try not to think about the day I lost him.
I think about the mornings at the beach.
The tennis ball that never stayed clean for long and strangers who smiled because they met him.
The countless ordinary moments that, in hindsight, became extraordinary.
Some dogs make the world happier simply by being in it, and Thor was one of those dogs, and I was lucky enough to be his person.
If there’s one thing I hope his story reminds people, it’s that we never get enough time with the dogs we love.
So throw the ball one more time. Take the walk. Let them stop and sniff.
Take too many pictures. Sit with them a little longer.
Because one day, those ordinary moments become the memories you’ll treasure most.
Thor gave me a lifetime of love in the months we had together, and if his story encourages even one person to cherish their dog a little more today, let that be his legacy.
I think he would have liked that.