When Grandpa moved in after his stroke, he was quiet and withdrawn—until he bonded with our dog, Rizzo. The big, shaggy Bernese mix never left his side, even nudging his cane or alerting us if something was wrong.

Every Sunday, Grandpa cooked scrambled eggs and fed the first bites to Rizzo. One morning, I overheard him whispering to Rizzo like he was speaking to Grandma Hazel, who had passed away two years prior. He even called the dog “Hazie” and brushed him with her old hairbrush.

It wasn’t just confusion—it was love. A way to keep her close.

One night, a storm came. Grandpa fell, and Rizzo’s bark saved him. At the hospital, he whispered, “Hazie saved me.”

We didn’t try to fix it. We met him where he was. And slowly, he smiled more, talked more, lived more.

Sometimes, grief looks like scrambled eggs and a loyal dog named Rizzo.