Last night was one of those nights that stays with you long after the dream ends. The kind where your heart pounds its way into your waking hours, and no matter how many times you remind yourself it wasn’t real, the fear still lingers, coiled tight in your chest. For those of you who read my blog, you already know this about me: my dogs are my world. Not just pets, not just companions—they’re my family. Each of my eight dogs is a piece of my life, an extension of my soul, a living chapter in my story.
Blanca, Jacki, Pebbles, Raina, Charlie, Chelsea, Chandler, and Billie. They’re my constant, my home. Each of them has their quirks, their personalities, and a part of my heart that belongs only to them. And because of how much I love them, the worst of my nightmares often revolve around losing them. It’s not uncommon for me to wake in a cold sweat, haunted by a dream of Blanca running into the street or Raina slipping out of sight, her mischievous streak leading her into danger. But last night’s dream was different. It was sharper, darker, and more relentless.
This time, it was Billie.
Billie is my little black Shih Tzu, the softest, gentlest soul in my pack. She’s the one who curls up next to me when the day feels too heavy, who wins over the others with her quiet kindness. Billie doesn’t demand attention; she simply exists as this calming presence, this reminder that even in the chaos of life, there’s still softness, still light.
In the dream, we were somewhere unfamiliar—a sprawling countryside that felt both eerily quiet and suffocating. The air was heavy, the light dim, and the world seemed to stretch endlessly into nothingness. Billie had gotten away. I didn’t see her run or wander off; she was just suddenly gone.
At first, I didn’t panic. I called her name, expecting her to trot back around a corner, her little tail wagging as if to say, “I’m right here, Dad.” But she didn’t come. I called louder, my voice carrying over the empty fields and winding dirt roads. Anthony, my husband, was with me, but instead of matching my urgency, he stood still, his expression unreadable.
“She’s gone,” he said, his voice calm, detached. “Someone will find her and give her a good home.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could he say that? Billie wasn’t just a dog who could be replaced. She was family, our family.
“No,” I said, my voice trembling. “We have to find her. She’s out there. She needs us. What if she’s hurt? What if she’s scared? What if—”
But Anthony didn’t respond. He just turned away, his silhouette fading into the snow that had started falling around us.
The snow came quickly, transforming the dirt road into a cold, white expanse. Every flake seemed to sap the heat from my body, but I couldn’t stop moving. I ran, slipping and stumbling, shouting her name into the wind. The world around me felt endless, each turn leading to more nothingness, every shadow a false hope. My desperation grew with each step, each minute that passed without finding her.
Horrible thoughts clawed at my mind: What if she was lost forever? What if she had frozen in the snow, waiting for me to save her? What if she had been hurt or taken? The possibilities were unbearable, a relentless loop of fear and failure.
Somewhere in the distance, I thought I saw movement—a flicker of black against the white landscape. My heart leapt as I ran toward it, calling out for Billie with everything I had left. But when I got there, it was nothing. Just a shadow cast by the bare branches of a tree.
The dream wouldn’t let me wake up. It wouldn’t let me find her or grieve her. It just kept me trapped in that endless search, my voice hoarse, my legs heavy, my heart breaking over and over again.
When I finally did wake up, I was disoriented, tangled in the sheets, my chest heaving like I had been running for hours. It took a moment to remember where I was, to ground myself in the safety of my bedroom. And then I saw her—Billie, curled up at the foot of the bed, snuggled between Chelsea and Raina. She was safe, sound asleep, her tiny body rising and falling with each peaceful breath.
Relief washed over me so powerfully that I felt tears sting my eyes. I reached out, brushing my fingers against her soft fur, needing the physical reassurance that she was really there.
I know it might sound dramatic to some. After all, it was just a dream, right? But if you’ve ever loved someone—or something—with every fiber of your being, you know how real the fear can feel. My dogs aren’t just dogs to me. They’re my family. They’ve been with me through every high and low, every battle and triumph. They’ve seen the parts of me I don’t show the world, and they love me anyway.
Losing them, even in a dream, is a kind of pain that cuts deep. It’s a reminder of how fragile love can be, how quickly the things we hold dear can slip through our fingers.
I keep thinking about what Anthony said in the dream: “She’s gone. Someone else will love her.” I know he’d never say that in real life. He loves our dogs as much as I do. But those words haunted me. Maybe it’s because they forced me to confront the possibility that there are things in life we can’t control, that sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we can’t protect the ones we love from everything.
But here’s the truth: I will never stop trying. My dogs are my reason to keep going, my source of joy and strength. They’ve been my companions through storms I never thought I’d survive, and I owe them everything.
So, to Billie, Blanca, Jacki, Raina, Charlie, Chelsea, Chandler, and Pebbles: you are my world. You are the best parts of me, and I will always fight for you. Even in my dreams. Especially in my dreams.