It’s Sunday, May 25—the day before Memorial Day. Tomorrow I’ll turn my focus toward those who’ve served our nation, but today… today is about honoring a differe…
It’s Sunday, May 25—the day before Memorial Day. Tomorrow I’ll turn my focus toward those who’ve served our nation, but today… today is about honoring a different kind of protector. Our loyal, loving, four-legged family member—Prince—who crossed the rainbow bridge yesterday after 15 beautiful years by our side.
This morning, I woke up with a bittersweet heart—more sweet than bitter, truthfully. Prince’s spirit is everywhere. He’s no longer in pain. And while we grieve, we also remember, celebrate, and honor his unwavering presence in our lives.
We got Prince when he was just six weeks old. I was out of town when Glenn surprised the kids—Haley was 14, Kobe was 7—by picking up a “package” from the airport. Except, it wasn’t from the Tucson International—it was cargo at FedEx. When he walked out holding the tiniest, fluffiest German Shepherd puppy, they were stunned and ecstatic. He was our second shepherd. Our first, King, had tragically passed in a freak accident. Prince became our healing joy.
We didn’t waste time making memories. One of the most special early ones was a road trip to the San Diego dog beach. He loved the sand, slept in our tent, and strutted along the shoreline like he owned it. He grew fast into a strong, loyal protector—majestic, gentle, and regal, true to his name.
Prince brought calm, steady energy to our family. His love for wide-open runs in the Tucson desert always made my heart sing. Seeing him free was seeing him truly alive. And yet, like all of us, age caught up. Over the last couple of years, we noticed him slowing. By the past six months, his hips were fading. But it was the past three days that brought that undeniable shift. He stopped moving. Stopped holding up his head. He soiled himself, laid there helpless. And we knew. We knew.
So we made the call. We held him. We cried. We whispered our love into his ears. And with a grace that only Prince could possess, he calmly let go. No flinching. No whining. Just peace. Even as the IV took hold, he lifted his head one last time—just a little—as if to say, "I see you. Thank you."
We were all there. Glenn, Kobe, and I physically. Haley on FaceTime from afar. The staff at the emergency vet were amazing—gentle, kind, efficient. It mattered.
Later, I asked my family to share their reflections. I wanted Prince’s legacy preserved in their own words.
From Glenn:
“Prince was loving from day one. He was a true German Shepherd—noble, loyal, protective, and devoted. He lived 16 amazing years and gave us his all. I always dreamed of having a German Shepherd, and Prince was the perfect one.”
From Kobe:
“Prince was my best friend. He was always there—through every change, every struggle, every phase. When I was a teenager dealing with stuff, he was right there going through it with me. I’d take him out on my longboard and we’d fly down the road. He never got tired. He was a badass, and I’ll carry him with me forever.”
Haley didn’t have words she wanted to share publicly, and that’s okay. Grief is personal. I told her she never has to contribute unless she feels called. I honor that silence too. It’s still love.
Prince was more than a dog. He was a heartbeat, a guardian, a force. When we got his "little nephew" Duke (who turned out to be more Rottie-lab than shepherd), their bond became another layer of joy in our home. Duke still runs around looking for his buddy, and our house is forever changed.
So today, we honor our Prince. A chapter closed, a spirit set free. May you run again—strong, fast, and fearless—along that endless desert trail in the sky. Thank you for everything, sweet boy.
We love you forever.
— Coach Lucy