The Dog Beside My Desk: Remembering Taro

Last week, I had to say goodbye to my dog. He was an Australian Cattle Dog, aka a blue heeler, and he was fourteen. We brought him home as a puppy and named him Taro (first son in Japanese) because he was my husband’s first dog.

Taro was smarter than any dog I’ve ever known. That intelligence made him endearing, but also challenging. He could open doors, figure out puzzles, and was usually one step ahead of us. Sometimes his antics made me laugh. Sometimes, I groaned. But always, I marveled at his ability to make the most of any moment.

Taro wasn’t just a pet; he was part of the fabric of our lives. He grew up alongside us, walked with us through so many changes, and loved us with the unwavering loyalty dogs excel at.

Losing him so soon after saying goodbye to my mother-in-law has been a real gut punch. Grief stacked on grief is heavy, and some days it’s hard to carry.

Taro’s story doesn’t end here

When I began writing the Elemental Artist series, I needed Matthew Sugiyama to have a companion. Someone loyal, grounded, and smart enough to be a true partner rather than just background.

Naturally, I looked to Taro.

The result was Charcoal, the dog who has trotted faithfully alongside Matthew through every adventure. If you’ve read the books, you’ve already met him. You just didn’t know you were meeting Taro too.

Taro wasn’t just a character in my books; he was my writing partner. Through every draft, revision, and round of edits, he was there. Snoozing beside my desk, sighing when I typed too long, nudging my hand when he decided it was time for me to take a break. His quiet presence kept me grounded and reminded me that stories, like life, are meant to be lived alongside those we love.

Right now, the house feels empty. Quiet. Often, I glance at the door expecting him to appear, or listen for the sound of his nails clicking across the floor.

I miss his supervision of our lives, reminding us to wake, eat, and go to sleep on his preferred schedule. His patrolling of the garden while I watered, or the kitchen while I cooked.

I am bereft, but still deeply grateful. Taro gave us fourteen years of snuggles, laughs, and love. He taught me patience and inspired my writing. Daily, he reminded us to find joy in the simple things. It took so little to make his day. A new ball, a cuddle, or a few productive (and loud) moments of bossing the horses around their paddock.

There is beauty in simple companionship. Now that he’s gone, I’m as thankful for the quiet moments we shared as I am for the delight of watching him tear open his Christmas presents, sprint down the beach, or march along an alpine trail.

And in that way, he’ll always be with me—whether in the pages of my books or the corners of my heart.