Lucia Monroe

Last month, someone from my local doggy daycare reached out and asked if I could check in with her best friend’s senior dog, Lucia. All I was told was her name, her age (14), and that she wasn’t doing well.

I didn’t know she had stopped eating. I didn’t know she could barely move. I didn’t know how heartbroken her family already was or how close they were to having to make a decision.

There was no backstory, no list of symptoms, no expectations. Just a quiet message: “Can you check in with her?”

What Lucia Shared With Me

The first thing she showed me was water. A calm, overcast shoreline. Gentle waves. The scene wasn’t vibrant. It was quiet, soft, and full of feeling.

I hadn’t been told anything about Lucia’s favorite places, but I shared what I saw.

Later, her mom confirmed: Lucia had spent years at the family’s shore house in Wildwood. They had already hoped to bring her there one last time, just for a moment of peace together.

Next, I felt something physical, like Lucia’s lower body was heavy, as if she were dragging a weight behind her. I said, “It feels like her back half just isn’t working, like she’s pulling herself through the day.”

That, too, was confirmed. Lucia’s back legs had stopped working months ago. She could no longer walk and had been getting around in a wagon or wheelchair, especially for beach visits.

Then she showed me a candle. It wasn’t out, but the flame was flickering—soft, dim, and fading. Her energy felt low, like she was drifting in and out.

Animals often communicate through symbolism, and I understood this as Lucia’s way of showing me how much life she had left. The flickering candle wasn’t just a visual—it was her way of saying she was tired, her light growing softer, her presence beginning to dim.

Later that day, her mom told me Lucia had stopped eating and had been incredibly weak. She was fading faster than they had hoped.

Lucia also showed me something gentle—something she wanted: a long, continuous pet from her head to her tail. Just one soft stroke. Not rushed. Not interrupted. Just comfort.

Her mom had been doing exactly that. She had been giving Lucia warm baths, cleaning her after accidents, and speaking to her with such care. She had been loving her through every fragile moment.

What I Didn’t Know

When I shared Lucia’s messages, I wasn’t telling her family that she was ready to go right away. That’s not how this works, and that’s never my call to make.

I was simply passing along what Lucia showed me: that she was tired, that she felt held in love, that her energy was growing quieter, and that the place she still longed for—the shore—was where peace lived for her.

I didn’t know they would make the decision to say goodbye that same day.

They had hoped to wait. They had hoped to take her to the shore just one more time. But after hearing what Lucia shared and seeing how quickly she was fading, they chose to let her go gently, with love, and without delay.

What Matters Most

The message Lucia made clearest was this:

“I know I’m loved.”

She knew she was still the baby. She knew her mom was trying to do everything right. And she was more concerned about her mom being okay than anything else.

This is what animals do near the end. They aren’t afraid like we are. They’re not clinging to the timeline. They’re watching us. Holding us. And when they speak, their words are simple.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

If You’re in That Space Right Now

If you're wondering whether they’re still holding on for you,
you don’t have to figure it out alone.

With just their name, a photo, and a quiet space to connect, your animal can share what they need you to know.

There’s no pressure to rush. And no need to wait for the perfect time.

Sometimes clarity comes quietly, wrapped in love, carried by waves, and held in the glow of a flickering candle.

When you’re ready: www.angelachakos.com

Lucia Monroe