The following is an excerpt from, The Dog Story: How Faith, Family, and a Puppy Helped Me Rediscover Hope by Matt Cavallo
It was July 15, 1982—my 6th birthday. The past year had been busy, even for a five-year-old. My dad had just finished building our new home in Hingham, and my sister had been born on my dad’s birthday—July 31, 1981. So now, we were in a new house with a new baby, and life had shifted in ways I didn’t fully understand.
But my mom wanted to do something special for her firstborn.
The night before, she sat down with my dad and me to make a plan. She was going to wake me up at 4:30 AM so we could drive to the coast and watch the 5:20 sunrise. My brother and I shared a room, so I had to be super quiet getting up—a job I took very seriously because I wanted this moment to be just me and my mom.
Mom grinned as we approached Roller Coaster Road. “Hold on, Matty,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
The car crested the first hill, then dropped suddenly, making my stomach leap. I squealed with laughter, gripping the edges of my seat as we bounced lightly over the dips and rises.
“Again!” I begged, but Mom just chuckled, shaking her head. “One jump’s enough, buddy. We’ve got somewhere special to be.”
As we crossed into Hull, the trees thinned, giving way to the open coastline. The scent of salt and seaweed filled the car, mingling with the faint mustiness of the old Volvo. The distant roar of the waves replaced the hush of the forest, and I pressed my face against the window, watching as the world transformed from deep greens to endless blues.
When we arrived at Gun Rock Beach, the sky was still deep blue, the ocean stretching out endlessly before us. Mom led me across the sand, stopping just where the waves licked the shore.
“Watch,” she said, pointing toward the horizon.
Slowly, the sky began to change, soft streaks of pink and orange bleeding into the darkness. The waves shimmered under the growing light, each crest catching the first golden rays of the sun.
Mom knelt beside me, her arm around my shoulders. “The world is big, Matty,” she whispered. “And no matter how hard things get, the sun always rises.”
I didn’t fully understand what she meant at the time, but I felt it—the warmth of her words, the comfort of her presence. I watched the sun climb higher, the water sparkling like a thousand tiny diamonds.
She reached into a tote bag and pulled out a small, wrapped package. “I want you to have this,” she said, pressing it into my hands. “So you always remember today. And so you always remember—you’re never alone.”
I tore at the paper, revealing a framed picture of the poem Footprints in the Sand. The words were written in elegant script, surrounded by an image of a shoreline, footprints trailing off into the distance.
Mom knelt beside me again, her voice soft but steady. “Whenever you’re scared or feel lost, I want you to look at this and remember today. Remember the sunrise, remember the waves, and remember that even when you don’t feel it—God is carrying you.”
I ran my fingers over the words, not yet fully understanding their weight, but sensing that they meant something important.
The ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and morning air as I clutched the frame close to my chest. The sound of the waves, rhythmic and endless, became something more than just noise—it was a promise.
