In loving memory of Bodam — our light, our strength, our joy. I remember my mother once saying, “We are only loaned to each other.” Someone had said it to her, and she passed it on to me. I didn’t understand it then, but today—I understand it far too well. Today was one of the worst days of my life. But it’s not the first. Today, I lost my precious Bodam—a strong, wise, funny, beautiful, regal South Korean Jindo mix. She was a princess who relished being spoiled and embraced the best life had to offer. And she loved life more than most humans I’ve ever known. I first saw Bodam on Instagram. Her rescuers were looking for someone in the United States to foster her. I had recently lost my other Jindo mix, and when I saw Bodam’s exquisite face and soulful eyes, I fell in love… again. Her history was horrifying. She was a dog meat trade survivor—likely born into it, used as a breeding dog. When she was no longer “useful,” she was hung from a tree and blowtorched for her meat. Two men were in the process of killing her when rescuers intervened. By God’s grace, she survived. But it wasn’t her tragic past that made me fall for her—it was her eyes. There was something in her gaze. An uncertainty about everything—life, her fu - ture, who would love her, and who would stay. What I knew, with full conviction, was that I wanted to be that person. I wanted to replace her fears with love, care, and joy—if she would let me. They told me her name was Lady, but she never re - sponded to it. I remembered someone from the res - cue in South Korea saying they would miss her—and calling her “Bodam.” I reached out to ask if that was truly her name. They replied, “Yes, her name is Bodam, but we always called her Bodam-ah!” which loosely means, “Hey Bodam!” When I found that out, I walked into the living room and asked, “Is your name really Bodam-ah?” Her eyes brightened. She wagged her tail just a little—hesit - antly. I knelt beside her and said, “Bodam-ah!” And she smiled… in that unmistakable doggy way. In that instant, something changed. A light switched on. Every door in her heart swung open—and she be - came mine. My girl. My daughter. Not just my dog. From that day forward, she was the boss. Before that moment, when we’d go for walks, she’d step outside and do what I called her i-pirouette—a quick turn to make sure I was still with her. Within a week of becoming mine, she stopped. She knew Momme was always there. (By the way—Mom + Me = Momme.) Soon after, I told her a brother was coming—a rescue from China. His name is Brownie. She waited for him patiently. When he arrived, they bonded instantly—as if they had known each other their entire lives. They would trot down the street, bumping hips like siblings teasing each other. She taught him the ropes. But that was easy—Bodam had created everything that made our home whole. She showed him how to feel safe, how to find joy, and how to trust again. It was Bodam who made him un - afraid of New York City—the sounds, the hustle, the chaos. She didn’t just walk through the world bravely—she led the way. She gave me courage too. When I was afraid, she was brave for me. Her calm grounded us. Her strength be - came our strength. It was beautiful to witness: two dogs from different countries, both scarred by the same evil, now living full of love and joy. It didn’t matter whether we had steak or dog food— Bodam showed Brownie how to savor life. How to play. How to simply be. That brings me to the title of this essay—The Loan. Bodam was my seventh dog as an adult. My dog—not a family pet. And for the first time, I understood what it meant when my mother said we are only loaned to each other. We share our lives for a time only God knows. And during that time, we must pay attention— to what is alive and breathing and loving us in return. We can’t let worries, distractions, or screens take us away from the moments that matter. Especially with animals—who never sweat the small stuff. Here in New York City, I see people constantly on their phones. They don’t look where they’re going, don’t notice who they bump into. And the worst part? They’re glued to their screens while walking their dogs. Why? Why are they ignoring them? You only have that pet for a short time. If I could take all the hours people waste ignoring their animals and add them to Bodam’s life—I would, in a heartbeat. But people treat themselves as sacred and everything else as secondary. How tragic. They don’t understand the loan. They don’t see the heavy payment waiting at the end of it. They abuse the gift of unconditional love—something no human will ever give them. And in doing so, they miss one of the greatest blessings God offers. Yes, I work a lot. But if I hear a sigh or a cough, I drop everything and run into the room to check on my pups. There is nothing—nothing—in this world more valuable to me than them. And maybe that’s why the heartbreak cuts so deep. People say they live on in your heart, but that’s not quite true. I believe they take a piece of your heart with them when they go. And one day, after I’ve loved enough dogs, the last one will take the final piece… and it will be my time to join them in Heaven. Like I told Bodam today: “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Brownie and Momme will be there in the blink of an eye.” That’s how fast life goes. James 4:14 says it best: “…yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.” Life is precious—especially the lives of animals. I will never forget what Bodam gave to me. For three years, I was blessed to have her in my life. I didn’t ig - nore her. I cherished her. And in death, she lives on in my heart—and I in hers—until the day she, Brownie, and I, along with all my pups and every animal I’ve ever cared for, are reunited with Jesus in Heaven. Her calm grounded us. She was my angel. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” — Hebrews 13:2