This week, my family lost a huge, fluffy, slobbering, four-legged, bilingual dog named Yoko. Yoko Pereira was a beautiful, 78-pound, male Labrador Retriever, named after John Lennon’s wife, Yoko Ono. He was 12 human years, or in dog years, 84-years-old. You can say that our Yoko lived a long life. I’ve known Yoko for most of that time, seeing as how he was adopted by my cousin, Raymond, and my aunt, Barbara, in his first living year.

I had never spent much time with Yoko, except on trips to see my family before this school year. I’m a broke college student, and I needed a more affordable place to stay these past couple semesters. My aunt, having a spare room in her home, offered me a place to stay over the fall and spring terms, which my parents and I graciously accepted. That’s when my aunt and her dog became my newest roommates.

Yoko and I got along pretty well to start out, but we were never best buds. We were as close as you can get for two relatives who don’t see each other too often, because, at the end of the day, Yoko and I were cousins. Most of the time, Yoko and I exchanged hello’s as I passed my aunt when walking through my house and to my room. Occasionally, while meal-prepping or just making myself a sandwich, I’d give Yoko a slice or two of cold cuts or maybe a couple pieces of chicken. Yoko’s sense of smell and understanding of what was going on was so well that every time I went to make a sandwich, he’d come over and wait for a snack.

As the months passed and we grew closer, I’d invite him on car rides with me to Publix and other places, and he’d sit in the passenger seat of my little two-door 2004 Hyundai Accent. We’d ride through the night to the sounds of Kanye, Kid Cudi, A Day to Remember and anything and everything else you could imagine I’d listen to, and Yoko would vibe with me.

Some days, I’d get back from school or work before my aunt, and Yoko would be waiting anxiously at the door for my aunt, only to be let down with the appearance of my face instead. I’d greet him as apologetically as I could and head back to my room to do whatever college kids do with all the free time they lie and say that they don’t have. That would be the end of our line of communication until later in the night, when I’d emerge again from my bat cave for a brief moment to make myself a sandwich or get some water or whatever.

Since the spring semester has begun, I’ve been spending more time at my aunt’s. My class schedule hasn’t allowed me to work as much, and I spend most of that newfound free time out behind the house writing, listening to music, “doing homework,” etc. Yoko would opt to join me for a bit on quite a few occasions. He used to spend all afternoon into the evening waiting for my tia (his mother) at the foot of the door. Upon her arrival, he’d do the cutest thing and go pick up “el hueso,” or “the bone,” bring it to Tia and eat it in front of her. That bone sat in the same spot all day and night if it had to, because it wasn’t getting eaten until Tia was home to watch him eat it.

He’d always join me outside in the back, at least briefly, to use the restroom that is the great outdoors, and to hear the barks of Torque, the neighboring German Shepherd. Torque is a much more aggressive dog than Yoko was, and it was evident. Yoko would come outside, walk up to the fence, and just inches away from him, watch and listen to Torque bark his lungs out, without much more than blinking at him. I was never that mature. In fact, Torque and I recently got into a shouting match. There were countless barks and screams of “Shut up!” exchanged, but after about a minute of two alpha-males going at it, I, of course, emerged victorious.

Recently I laid out a cushion for Yoko while I’d be out back, and his stays with me grew longer. He’d sit at my side while I brainstormed writing topics, just kind of taking the pleasant weather that Miami has been experiencing in with me.

My relationship with Yoko has grown so much stronger since we’ve become roommates, and that hasn't made his death any easier to deal with. Yoko became my shoulder to lean on when things got tough. This dog was my companion when I needed pretzel chips and hummus and the only option I had was to drive to Publix. He reminded me that while sometimes, I might feel really alone in this world, even hopeless, he was waiting at that doorstep, drool dripping out of his mouth and all to give me, and anyone else who walked through that door, all his love. He wasn’t just a great dog. Yoko was a brother, a son, a grandson, a cousin, a nephew, a roommate, a “bro,” a friend and an absolute baller. Yoko was a part of my family, more than I could even say for a few human parts of my family. He was a king of kings. He was “Mister Yoko” as my abuelo Benito called him.

Yoko Pereira, we love you. Thank you for spending the time you had with us. As my uncle William would say every day when he and my grandfather dropped him off after watching him for the afternoon: “Alright Yoko, take it easy.”