Letters From Stephanie Reese

Kenzo

“The answer is no,” I said. Just no.

Last April, I lost my Obi—our beautiful Great Dane, my heart dog—to lymphoma after a long, exhausting fight. We tried everything. Chemo, medications, long drives to the only oncologist we trusted. In the end, cancer won and my heart shattered. Anyone who has loved a dog knows this grief. Their love is so pure, so unconditional, that losing them feels like losing a piece of yourself.

So, when my husband suggested getting another dog, I couldn’t imagine it. It felt impossible, almost disloyal to Obi. I thought opening my heart again would somehow diminish the love I still carried for him.

Then a friend called about a young Great Dane, Erebus, who needed a home. I still said no. But after praying for guidance, an acquaintance unexpectedly shared words I couldn’t ignore: “Don’t be afraid to love again. Your capacity to love is still there. That’s what Obi would have wanted.”

Those words cracked my heart open just enough.

We agreed to foster him. He arrived scared, uncertain and unfamiliar with simple joys: playing with toys, running through grass or even accepting treats. I was cautious. So was he. But little by little, as he learned to trust us, I realized I wasn’t replacing Obi, I was simply making room for someone new. As we got to know him, we knew Erebus wasn’t a foster… he was ours. We changed his name, because Erebus, meaning God of the Dark, was not fitting for this sweet boy. We renamed him Kenzo Lorenzo. 

Kenzo Lorenzo taught me that grief and love can co-exist. That loving again doesn’t erase what came before. It expands what our hearts are capable of holding.

There are many differences between Obi and Kenzo Lorenzo. Obi could open every door in our house and didn’t hesitate to do so. He taught himself to use handles, forced doors open with his nose and even pushed open sliding glass doors, just to be near us. Kenzo Lorenzo approaches a door, even if slightly ajar, and then looks at me and waits patiently for me to open it. 

I always do…