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You know, I was asked a question recently that stopped me cold.

“If you could have one more conversation with someone… who would it be?”

Now that’s not an easy question. It’s not one you answer quick. You feel it before you speak it.

I had to think about that one.

For me, it came down to Mom or Dad.

Now my mom — I spoke to her almost every single day for the last twenty years of her life. We talked about everything and nothing. She was my sounding board, my cheerleader, my reminder that I mattered. So as much as I’d love another talk with her… I think we said all the words we needed to say.

But my dad… that’s different.

He wasn’t much of a talker. In fact, most of our phone calls went like this — he’d answer, say “Hey, Bobby,” and then hand the phone to Mom. That was just the way it was. But in person? In those quiet moments, there was something about his presence that said more than words ever could.

I remember that last walk — the one where Alisa and I were leaving, and I held his hand. We looked at each other and said “I love you.” I can still see it — that look of pride in his eyes, and the look he saw in mine — nothing but love, thanks, and admiration.

That moment was our conversation.

And if I could have one more? I wouldn’t fill it with questions or stories or even advice. I think I’d just take another walk. Quiet. Simple. Just a father and a son. Maybe hold his hand one more time, and let that be enough.

You see, sometimes the most powerful conversations don’t need many words. They’re felt, not spoken. They’re remembered, not recorded.

And if you’ve still got the chance to have that one more conversation — don’t wait.

Make the call. Take the walk. Say the thing.

Because one day, that silence… that stillness… will mean everything.

That says it all, Dad.

I love you.

Sometimes peace comes with paws.

This morning didn’t start fast. I actually slept in a little—7:15 felt like a gift. Coco and I stepped outside into the quiet, a little slower, a little softer than usual.

Back inside, we followed the morning routine. I cleaned her paws, wiped her face, gave a little extra attention to her undercarriage and those velvety ears she doesn’t love me messing with—but tolerates anyway. Then I fixed her breakfast. I won’t lie—it was a pretty delicious little meal. She licked the bowl clean and looked at me like, “That’ll do, Dad.”

Then I got to work on breakfast for Alisa and me. Bacon, eggs, toast, and my favorite—homemade hashbrowns. I take those little golden potatoes, shred half, dice the other, and get them crispy in a skillet. Oh my. That’s happiness right there. We sat down together, shared a quiet meal, and had one of those simple, satisfying moments that remind you you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

After we ate, I cleaned everything. Washed the dishes. Dried them. Put them away. It was a full morning already—and it wasn’t even 9:30.

Then I sat down. Just to breathe. Just for a minute.

And that’s when it happened.

Coco climbed into my lap. All nine pounds of her—warm, soft, and perfectly still. Like she knew. Like she felt the morning and everything it took to make it flow. And it was almost as if she whispered, “Daddy had a busy morning. I can help.”

And help she did.

That moment—right there—is what I call Nine Pounds of Peace.

Sometimes we think peace comes after the work is done, or when life slows down, or when we finally escape to some magical getaway. But maybe peace is simpler than that. Maybe peace isn’t something we chase. Maybe it finds us—when we show up for the people (and pets) we love… when we give… when we serve… when we care.

And maybe sometimes, peace doesn’t speak a word.

Maybe it just climbs into your lap and says, in its own quiet way, “I’m here.”

Sometimes peace comes with paws.

And this morning, peace was nine pounds of golden fur and love.