The Last Look

How a Dog Named Lyka Taught Me to Live in the Present

She was lying on the bed, unable to move, her body finally giving up after ten years of fierce loyalty. Cancer had taken its toll. As I walked closer, she did what she always did—growled at me like the territorial guard she'd always been. But within seconds, her tail wagged. Even in pain, even knowing tomorrow would never come for her, she recognized me.

Then she looked at me. Eye contact. My world stopped.

I am someone who constantly lives in the future or the past, building castles and roads in my mind. But in that moment, with Lyka's eyes holding mine, I was pulled into the most painful and beautiful present I'd ever experienced. This was it. This was all we had. And if I let my thoughts drift even for a second, I would miss her completely.

The Enemy Who Became a Friend

Let me tell you how we got here.

When my friend Abhimanyu brought Lyka home last year—a 9-year-old lab with a fierce territorial streak—our building dynamics changed overnight. Unlike the gentle labs you hear about, Lyka was ferocious, especially around other females.

My wife Bhavna and I have Mallipoo, a 5-year-old territorial female who wasn't about to back down from anyone.

The face-offs were dangerous. Both dogs wanted to pounce on each other. Lyka growled at Bhavna and me whenever we came near. Mallipoo would run away from home trying to pick fights. Abhimanyu and I had to change our walk timings, and slowly, we stopped hanging out.

But I've learned something over the years: I don't judge people—or dogs—by their first reactions. We are complex beings who can't be put in brackets. We're not numbers; we're individuals, each unique and layered.

So we decided to bridge the gap with yankee sticks—those cheese bone treats dogs love. Lyka growled at first, but slowly, she started warming up to us. The transformation was gradual but real. Once she accepted us as friends, she revealed her other side: the side that wanted pets all the time, that would sit on your lap and never want to leave.

Abhimanyu would joke that she was his wife before he actually got married. She was possessive, waiting for him to come home, waking him in the morning. She wasn't just a dog—she was a devotee, like Hanuman in your life, offering unconditional love and unwavering loyalty.

Ten Years of Unconditional Love

Lyka had seen Abhimanyu's most difficult and transformative years—his twenties to thirties. She was there when he lost his father, when he got his job, when he built his company, when he met and married Radha. Through every joy and heartbreak, she remained constant.

Dogs are like that. They're devotees who love without conditions, without judgment, without keeping score. They just are—present, loyal, real.

As Lyka turned 10, we learned she had cancer. Abhimanyu tried everything—medication, chemotherapy—but her body was giving up. One day, he messaged us: "Come meet her today. We've decided to let go of her tomorrow."

The words hit like a punch. But I knew I had to see her.

Living in the Moment She Was Dying

That's when I found myself in her room, looking into her eyes, feeling time stop.

In real life, you're constantly chasing something. When grief happens, you realize you could have spent that one more day you refused, could have been present instead of planning. You always live in the past when it's over, but this was different.

This was surreal. I knew she would be euthanized tomorrow. This was where I got to meet her alive, one last time. If I let my mind drift to the future even here, I would never truly see her or feel her presence.

So I stayed. I felt her. I cried so hard that the tears wouldn't stop. She kept looking at us, even in her pain. It was heartbreaking to know we wouldn't see her tomorrow, but I was there—present, alive with her in her dying moments. No thoughts about what comes next. Just this.

I went there to console Abhimanyu and Radha, but when I looked into Lyka's eyes, I became the one who needed consoling. How do these beings come into our lives as dogs and give us such unconditional love and joy? How do they become our everything, making their loss feel like losing a piece of our soul?

For thirty minutes, I petted her and talked about all our memories. Abhimanyu told us how yankee sticks had become her favorite food, and we laughed through tears, telling her we were talking about her, about all the joy she'd brought.

I even joked with her: "Now who will Mallipoo bark at? What should I tell her? The hero is only as good as the villain. Without one of them, the story doesn't exist."

The Gift of Presence

For Abhimanyu and Radha, the pain was deeper than anything I could imagine. But I'm grateful our paths crossed, grateful I got to know her soul. She was beautiful, pure, and the truest friend. Completely unconditional.

The next day, it happened. We prayed and let her body go, but we knew she was still with us.

That moment with Lyka cemented something I'd been learning through my blogs and life practice: the power of living in the present. As someone who constantly builds castles in the future and roads through the past, I'm learning to understand when to plan and when to simply live.

Present is a present—they say that for a reason. We take the present for granted, always believing we'll have another moment, another day, another chance. But sometimes life gives you a moment where you know, with absolute certainty, that this is it. This is all you get.

In that moment, you have a choice: drift into your thoughts about tomorrow, or stay right here, right now, and live it fully.

Lyka taught me that living in the present isn't just about mindfulness—it's about being alive. Not everything is permanent. The people we love, the dogs who choose us, the moments that matter—they're all temporary gifts.

The question is: Will we be present enough to receive them?

Love you, Lyka. Rest in peace.

From your friend who finally learned to stay in the moment.