The Only One Who Truly Understood Without a Word

By Richie Pikunis

Still Shaking. Still Showing Up. Still Missing My Girl.

I don’t remember the exact moment Parkinson’s entered my life. But I remember how it felt—like getting evicted from my own body. Nothing worked the way it used to. I couldn’t trust my limbs, my meds, or my mood. But there was one thing I could count on, every single time:

Millie.

Millie was the sweetest damn little dog to ever live. No debate. She wasn’t flashy, didn’t do party tricks, didn’t need Instagram likes. She just knew me. And when Parkinson’s would come barreling in—uninvited and unapologetic—Millie came too.

Except she came with love.

She’d sense it before I did. The stiffness. The slowness. The sadness. She could feel the shift in the air, in my energy, in the way I moved or didn’t move at all. And instead of panicking or pulling away, she leaned in.

If I froze, she curled up beside me. If I was in pain, she’d plant herself at my feet. If the depression kicked the door down, Millie didn’t ask questions—she just stayed. No judgment. No noise. Just her warm little body pressed against mine like a living weighted blanket that smelled like hope and dog treats.

She didn’t make it better. She just made it bearable.

That’s the thing about dogs like Millie—they don’t care what diagnosis you have or how “off” your day is. They don’t recoil from symptoms. They don't flinch at tremors or fatigue. She didn’t need me to be strong. She just needed me to be there. And in return, she gave me everything.

Now, she’s gone.

And I swear, the silence is louder than any symptom I’ve ever had. I keep expecting to hear her nails tapping the floor. I still look for her before I sit down. I still hesitate at the door, waiting for a leash that isn’t there.

I’ve cried over a lot of losses in this life, but this one? This one got me in the soft spot. Because Millie wasn’t just my dog—she was my co-pilot. My nurse. My little therapist with paws. The one who never once left when things got hard.

And now that she’s not here, I feel every inch of her absence.

Millie was love in its purest form. The kind that doesn’t run. The kind that shows up without being asked. The kind that says, “You don’t have to be okay. I’ve got you anyway.”

I miss her. God, I miss her.

But I’m better because she was mine. And if you’ve ever had a dog like that, you know—you don’t just lose a pet. You lose a piece of your soul that knew how to hold you when nothing else could.

Rest easy, Millie.

Thank you for every moment.

—Richie

Still Shaking. Still Showing Up. Still Saving You a Spot on the Couch

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