Twenty years did Argos wait for Odysseus to return to Ithaca. Although disguised, the master could not conceal himself from his hound, for Argos recognized Odysseus.
“There lay the dog, Argos, covered with pests,” Homer recalled. “But then, when he recognized that Odysseus was coming near, he wagged his tail and flattened both ears, but he could no longer rise to meet his master.
Odysseus looked sideways and wiped away a tear.” His dog had passed. Argos embodies loyalty that outlives glory, power, and even identity.
But he is not the only dog we remember for his staunch devotion and evocative symbolism; there is the Akita, Hachikō, who waited nearly ten years at Shibuya Station for his owner, who had died.
Laika, the first living being to orbit Earth aboard Sputnik 2 in 1957. And although she did not survive the journey, she represents the moral cost of progress and remains a haunting symbol of humanity’s technological ambition.
Edinburgh’s Greyfriars Bobby, who guarded his owner’s grave for fourteen years until his own death, became a living monument to grief, attachment, and memory—turning loyalty into public myth.
And everyone knows Buck, from Jack London’s Call of the Wild. A St. Bernard and Scotch Shepherd cross, who symbolized regression into mythic nature and the shedding of civilization to rediscover instinct, strength, and sovereignty.
These are all dogs of modern myth, whom we speak of in university lecture halls and television documentaries. Yet, many of us have such a dog at home who embodies all those qualities and more. Our own personal heroes, loyal friends, and symbols.
Mika, a beagle, was my best friend; I lost her to cancer.
Mika was a great dog, the best dog. I love her still. She was loving, curious, sassy, and exceptionally loyal.
As a beagle, she loved to eat (especially treats), go on long sniff-filled walks, and gaze, from a rocking chair, through the window to bark at the goings-on in the street.
She loved behind-the-ear scratches, being petted atop the head, and having her belly rubbed, especially as part of her morning routine.
She was intensely loving and protective of my mom; loved eating alongside my dad; and, without a doubt, grew ten times in joy after playing with my brother, who lovingly called her ‘bumble butt.’
She had a very particular sigh for when she had had enough of people, and another one for when she did not get her way. At night, she loved to howl at the raccoons in the forest behind my house, and when she slept, she snored. Loudly.
When it came time to switch the side on which she lay, she’d get up and plop down with force onto me to let me know that she just switched it up. Then she’d give me a ‘this is a much better position’ glance.
There were so many little nuances and eccentricities to how she went about things.
When my dad brought her from a Kentucky flea market thirteen years ago, she was small, skinny, and had a nasty whooping cough. Our springer spaniel, Nala, wasn’t very happy with having another dog in the house.
But with time, Nala taught her everything and, at the very least, tolerated her. They even spent a night in jail together.
Mika suffered from frequent seizures, and often needed someone to embrace her—both as a calming factor and so that she did not hurt herself—when she’d go through an episode.
Yet, all those hard moments were worth it, because Mika wasn’t only a pet, but a family member full of unconditional love, silent wisdom, and lessons in resilience, patience, and willful action.
To aid a suffering pet (or anyone for that matter) is to build a bond between two perceptions of love and being.
The bond between a dog and their owner is powerful because it exists without pretense or negotiation. A dog does not love for status, utility, or reciprocity.
It loves by presence alone, by choosing to remain near, attentive, and loyal regardless of circumstance. In that relationship, the owner is seen at their most unguarded—during grief, illness, routine, and failure—and the dog stays.
This constancy forms a rare kind of trust, one that strips life down to its essentials: shared time, mutual recognition, and quiet endurance. It is not sentimental to say this bond changes a person.
It disciplines the heart, teaches responsibility without domination, and reveals a form of love that does not collapse under hardship.
In many ways, it is one of the last relationships left that resists transaction and reminds us what devotion actually looks like when it is lived rather than spoken.
Mika taught me that love is most pure when it asks for nothing but the joy of being near another soul.
When I shared this thought with a friend, she said her dog (also a beagle) makes her feel safe and loved when loneliness creeps in, and that’s the reason, alongside all these unsaid unknowns, why she pours out as much love into the world as possible.
That is why we have pets: to learn about the deepest unconditional sort of love in the darkest and most oppressive of instances, be they of the mind, soul, or body.
I miss Mika very much. Her absence has left a massive void. However, I know she knew that I loved her, that my family and I gave her a wonderful life, and that she influenced and changed me forever in ways that most people simply cannot.
I’m grateful to God for having her in my life, and when the time comes, I know she’ll be the first one to welcome me into the next phase. Her influence was so great that I know she will echo throughout the rest of my life.
I’ll leave you with something my brother wrote: “Spring told all the flowers to bloom to show her greatness, and the flowers obeyed with joy, opening, hugging, and welcoming the little queen.
” Goodbye for now, Mika. You were, and always will be, the best girl.
