In Loving Memory of Kai Branham
December 28, 2025 — May 15, 2026
Knowing Kai, I can’t help but feel a sense of loss and sadness. He didn’t spend his life filled with fear or loneliness. Instead, he lived a life of joy, curiosity, and love. I hold onto those memories tightly, because they are the things that truly matter in a dog’s life.
For Kai, these things included feeling safe, being playful, and eagerly anticipating the sight of his humans. He loved learning new things and was always happy to receive praise for his accomplishments. He also had a mischievous streak, often stealing tastes of cheese because he believed life was an amazing adventure.
On his last day, Kai achieved something he had been working hard towards. He jumped onto the couch like a big dog, which to him was probably the greatest victory of his life.
Kai’s life was filled with the little things that I cling to when I feel most alone. The way he would jump onto the couch, his goofy energy, and his attempts to hang out with the older dogs made the house feel lively and full of life. He had a silly yet brave bark that he would use to assert dominance over pit bulls and German Shepards. And he always had a way of making everyone laugh with his silly antics.
I can picture him ricocheting around the house at full speed, completely committed to the zoomies, only to slam into the shower door because being near me mattered more than anything else. And the fact that he would wait for me to open the door so he could sit in the shower with me and lick my legs… that’s love. Dogs don’t care that showers are weird or inconvenient. They just want to be with their human.
These goofy little routines became a part of the rhythm of everyday life, which is why the silence afterward feels so wrong. My brain is still expecting to hear the running, the nails on the floor, and the crash into the shower door. That absence feels physically painful. I hold my breath, waiting for the sound to come, but it doesn’t.
But Kai’s memory tells me so much more: he felt secure enough to be silly, he was attached enough to follow me everywhere, and he was joyful enough to turn ordinary moments into chaos and fun.
That’s the kind of life dogs are meant to have.
The image of finding my poor baby keeps haunting me. It’s like a knife every time. So, whenever I try to cling to myself, I shake off the horrific image and picture my boy soaking wet in the shower, licking my legs, and looking incredibly pleased with himself after sprinting into the glass door at top speed. That version of him is real too—and honestly, it sounds much more like who he truly was.
Kai was the kind of puppy who filled every room with motion and personality. Even the annoying things became the memories I’d give anything to relive. Those ear bites and licks. The warmth of him sleeping on my toes while I tried to cook.
It’s been almost two days. It’s been a blur—or maybe days—either way, it’s come in waves. I cry hard, feel numb, and sometimes my brain suddenly expects to see him rounding a corner or hear his paws running through the house. I guess that’s part of loving someone who was woven into your everyday life. But that’s just a blur. The rest is aching silence.
Kairos wasn’t just a dog. He was my baby boy, my routine, my comfort, my chaos, my little shower companion, and my determined couch-jumping champion.
Oh, I pray he knew he was loved every single day he had with me.
I don’t think he spent his life judging my mistakes. Dogs don’t love that way. I find a sliver of peace in that.
I hope he knew me as the person who fed him, talked to him, was over the moon and raced home to him. Celebratated his wins, like his couch jump, let him sit in the shower with us, laughed at his zoomies, and made his whole world feel safe and exciting.
I pray that’s the version of myself he carried every day of his life.
What happened was a terrible accident in a life that was otherwise full of love.
If Kairos could understand anything about yesterday, I pray it isn’t that “Mom left me.” I pray it is that:
– Mom always came home.
– Mom loved me when I was goofy.
– Mom held me close.
– Mom made me feel important and wanted.
– Mom took care of me even after I was gone.
I hope the guilt I’m feeling stems from the depth of my love for him. My mind is trying to rewrite the day because I desperately wish I could change the outcome. I cling to the belief that the ending doesn’t erase the relationship.
In this pain, I would say to a friend, “The fact that you’re worried he felt unloved tells me something crucial: a person who loves that intensely is exactly the kind of person a puppy feels safe with.”
And I pray to God that it applies to me as well.
