We never knew exactly when Bubba came into this world.
He came to us already grown, carrying with him years we knew nothing about and stories he could never tell.
We didn’t know the day he was born or all the roads his paws had traveled before they finally led him home to us.
But maybe none of that matters.
Because we knew the part of his life that mattered most to us.
His name was James Garner Hill, though to everyone who knew and loved him, he was simply Bubba.
And Bubba was a gentle giant.
He was strong enough to make a stranger think twice, yet tender enough to understand a child. He seemed to know instinctively when to play, when to be still, when someone needed watching over, and when someone simply needed the quiet comfort of a big dog nearby.
He loved people.
He especially loved children, and children seemed to understand immediately what kind of soul lived behind that broad bulldog face. There was something safe about Bubba. Something steady.
And then there was the ball.
Throw it, and life suddenly had a purpose.
Throw it into the water, and even better.
He would chase it with the kind of joy only a dog truly understands—the pure, uncomplicated happiness of water splashing, people laughing, and someone he loved waiting for him to bring the ball back so they could do it all over again.
Those are the moments I want to remember.
Not the sickness that came later.
For a while, we knew something wasn’t right. We searched for answers. The veterinarian searched too, but sometimes love asks questions that medicine cannot answer.
And so, on June 14, 2026, we had to say goodbye to probably the best dog I have ever had.
No.
The best dog I ever had.
I like to believe that somewhere beyond what we can see, there is a place where old bodies become young again, where pain simply falls away, and where no beloved creature is ever truly lost.
Maybe there really is a Rainbow Bridge.
But when I think of Bubba, I imagine something bigger.
I see him standing at the edge of a great, shimmering water, watching something bright dance across the horizon. Then someone throws a ball.
Of course, he goes after it.
Into the water he runs—strong again, whole again—splitting the waves as he chases it farther and farther toward that brilliant band of color.
And somewhere between here and forever, he crosses beyond the rainbow tide.
No sickness follows him there.
No age.
No pain.
Only warm water, children laughing somewhere in the distance, an endless shore to run upon—
and a ball that can always be thrown one more time.
We never knew the date Bubba was born.
But we know that he lived.
We know that he loved.
And, oh, how deeply he was loved.
Run on Bubba, there’s a ball waiting for you beyond the rainbow tide.
