Goodbye, Kevin

Hello, my name is Warren.

I am a Bernese Mountain Dog, and this is my home.

I came here long before little Kevin was born. Mother and Father took me in, gave me soft beds, good food, and sweet treats every day. The vet would shake his head and tell them: too many tidbits — he will grow too round. But I only wagged my tail, happy and safe within these walls.

Then Kevin came.

He is nearly two years old now, small and wobbly on his feet. When he sees me, he runs fast, then tumbles down into my thick fur and laughs out loud. He leans close to my ear and makes little sounds — he is trying to speak to me. I tilt my big head, listen carefully, and rumble low to answer him back. Sometimes he climbs onto my broad back and rides me as if I were a horse. I am strong, so I can hold him easily — until Mother comes over and lifts him down.

“We cannot ride Warren, little one,” she says gently. “He is not a horse.”

Even so, we found so many happy days together — chasing toys, napping side‑by‑side, greeting each other at the door. I thought those days would last forever.

Then the bad storm arrived, not long ago.

Thunder boomed loud, rain poured hard, and cold wind blew through the house. I lifted my nose and breathed deep — the air smelled fresh, of wet earth and rain‑washed grass. Kevin slipped close to the open door, curious about the storm and the new‑smelling air.

But something else had slipped inside too — a snake.

I saw it move toward him. My fur stood up. I barked loudly and stepped forward to block its way. It was too fast — it struck my right hind leg. I tried to stand firm, tried to keep guard over my boy — but the pain spread through me, heavy and quick. By the time Mother and Father found us, it was already too late.

Kevin was safe. That was all I wanted most.

I could not get up anymore. I could not run to greet him, or let him lean against my side. Now I stay here as a quiet spirit, still inside this house. I watch Kevin play with his toys alone, walk about, and make his little noises to Mother and Father. He looks for me sometimes, confused — he does not understand why his big furry friend will not play with him anymore. He cannot see me, but I am still here. My heart still wants to watch over him, to keep him safe, just as I always did.

After some days, Mother and Father took me to the old Catholic church. They spoke with the priest for a long while. Then the priest walked over to me, stroked my head softly, and spoke of faithfulness, of love, and of how I had tried to protect my family.

Deep inside me, I knew — this was the time to go.

Then the large winged person came for me.

Tall, like a great person with wide wings I had never seen before. I did not know who this one was — only that this one had come to take me away. This one knelt down before me, and reached out to lift me up. I knew I could not say no. My work of guarding Kevin and my family was finished. The large winged person held me light as a breath, and turned toward the great golden light ahead.

Before we went further, I turned my head for one last look back — far away, I could picture my little Kevin, still at home.

Good‑bye, dear Kevin.

I hope that one day, we will meet again.