I've always loved birthdays — not in a casual way, but with the kind of reverence most people reserve for holidays. There's a reason for that.
When I was not yet five years old, my father died in the line of duty. My mother was left to raise me and my sick older brother alone, working relentlessly just to keep us fed. I understood early on that I could not add to her burden. She rarely had time to be there — not for my small victories, not for my failures. Her absence became normal. But once a year, on my birthday, she would stop. She would bake a cake, light candles, and sit with me while my grandmother and brother sang. Those moments were my entire world.
I especially remember my tenth birthday. It was a sunny weekend. My mom took me to the park and asked what I wanted — a rare question. I had spent years walking past the arcade on our street, watching older kids commandeer the joysticks, their hands flying across buttons as pixelated fighters battled on-screen. I never had pocket money. I never asked. But that day, I did. She handed me one or two yuan.
I slid the coins into the machine. It roared to life. I had no idea what I was doing. Two minutes later, I had lost everything. I stood there, heartbroken, choking back tears. My mom pulled me into a hug and reached into her bag. She handed me a storybook — a children's fairytale. I held it carefully, afraid I would damage it, and started reading right away.
From that day on, birthdays became even more important to me.
August 17, 2008. I took my mother to dinner for her birthday. As she grew older, she became less willing to celebrate, but I remembered. After we ate, it started to drizzle. The streets were quiet. Under a streetlamp, a woman selling dogs was packing up. She picked up a tiny white puppy and tossed him onto the curb like he was garbage. He sat there in the rain, shaking, staring after her with this look — like he had done something wrong and did not understand what.
My eyes were drawn to him. He was so pitiful, so vulnerable. I could not look away. The woman turned to leave. “Your dog!” I shouted. She glanced back. “Don’t want it,” she said, and walked off.
The puppy sat there, abandoned in the cold rain and wind. I ran over and scooped him up, then begged my mom: “Can we take him home?” She hesitated. I quickly added: “It's your birthday — he must be a gift from heaven for both of us!” She paused, then said: “If you bring him home, you have an obligation to take good care of him.” I agreed immediately.
“Should we give him a name?” I asked. My mom thought for a moment. “Today you wished me a happy birthday. He's the dog who brings me joy. Let's call him Lele.”
My Lele. He finally came home with us.
He was an ordinary dog — white fur, stubby tail — but to me, he was everything. Day by day, year by year, he went from wobbly puppy steps to bouncing off the walls. He was the heartbeat of our household, the center of our conversations. Every day when I came home from work, my mom would update me: “Lele learned to sit today.” The next day: “He learned to roll over.”
But he was also a troublemaker. Once, while we were out shopping, he wreaked havoc at home — chewed my sandals and my mom's heels into scraps. Sometimes he would pee indoors or leap onto the table to steal our dinner, and my mom would chase him, yelling, while he bolted away in a flash.
After I got married and moved into my new home, I could only visit on weekends to see my old friend. One day I came home and Lele was gone. My mom was in tears, telling me Lele had run off. I comforted her and asked what happened. She said he had been running out a lot lately — sometimes she could find him, sometimes not. But on Friday, the moment she opened the door, he shot past her. She could not catch him.
I told her I would find him. It was July — scorching summer heat. I walked every alley, every block, calling Lele's name. I asked strangers if they had seen a small white dog. No one had. My hope dimmed with every hour. By Sunday, a thunderstorm hit. I stood at the window watching the rain come down in sheets, my heart racing. I prayed someone kind had taken him in. I prayed he was smart enough to find shelter.
The night deepened. My heart sank lower. Then the doorbell rang. The security guard shouted: “There's a dog at the gate — is it your Lele?!” I sprinted downstairs. It was him. I scooped up the soaking wet little thing, scolding and crying at the same time, and carried him home. Everyone was overjoyed — Lele was back. Later we found out he had traveled several blocks to wait outside a shop for someone else's female dog. What a little romantic, making us search so hard.
Lele witnessed so many important moments in my life: my wedding, the birth of my first child, then my second, career struggles, mid-life unemployment, going back for my PhD. Day by day he grew older, accompanying me through the most important years of my life. As I transformed from an ambitious young man into a mature, steady middle-aged father, Lele became an elderly dog.
He stopped wanting to move much, often sleeping for long stretches in his bed. He started losing teeth and could only eat soft rice. His back legs became stiff from arthritis. I took care of him as best I could. When he got sick, I researched his symptoms and took him to the vet.
In late December 2023, during a walk, he suddenly collapsed — foaming at the mouth, gasping for air. My son and I rushed him home. I held him close, terrified this was the end. The vet diagnosed heart disease. He had barely survived. I brought him home and watched over him day and night, praying he would recover. Finally, on the fifth day, he miraculously woke up. I knew how remarkable this was for a 16-year-old dog. But I also knew our time together was running out.
In his last year, he became even less active. His knees wore raw from friction, developing thick calluses. Soon he could barely walk — we had to take him out in a stroller or basket. He would lie quietly on the grass, looking up at us with eyes full of love. As his condition worsened, we put him in diapers to keep his bed clean. I knew he was suffering. But I could not let go.
February 8, 2025. My birthday. It was the last time he would attend. He was so weak he could not open his eyes. I scooped a bit of cream from the cake and brought it to his mouth — one of his favorite treats as a puppy. This time, he did not open his mouth. On February 20, 2025, he went to dog heaven.
A month later, my son and I bought flowers and went to where we had buried Lele. Standing there, I had countless things I wanted to say but could not find the words. Finally, I placed the flowers down and whispered softly:
“Thank you, Lele. My old friend.”
When I got home, I kept thinking about that night.
August 17, 2008. The rain. The puppy shivering under the streetlamp. My mother saying, “You're responsible for him.” I knew the date. I had always known it. But I had never marked it as the milestone it was.
If I had had a frame back then — engraved with “Lele • Joined us on Aug 17, 2008” — sitting on our shelf all those years, it would have reminded me every single day: “This is when he came into our lives.” “This is when everything changed.” “This is the time we have together — treasure it.”
That's the regret I carry. Not that I forgot. But that I never celebrated the beginning the way it deserved.
That's why I created Pawova.
Not just to help people remember after it is too late. But to help families mark the moment it begins. To turn the day your pet comes home into a milestone — with a frame, a name, a date engraved in wood. To give you something tangible that sits on your shelf and reminds you, every single day: “This is the day they arrived. And every day since then is a gift.”
Because arrivals deserve celebration. Because the first day matters just as much as the last. And because the years in between — those ordinary days, those walks, those moments when they look up at you with all that love — those are the ones we need to hold onto most.
Pawova isn't about memorials. It is about being present. It is about marking the beginning so you never forget to cherish the middle.
So pay attention now. Mark the day. Celebrate the arrival. And treasure every single step that follows.
Lele isn't here anymore, but I never stopped keeping that promise. I just keep it differently now — in every kit I pack, every detail I double-check, every late night spent writing a guide so someone else's first weeks feel a little less overwhelming. That's still me, taking care of him. It just looks like taking care of everyone else's dog now, too.
Every step of pet parenthood.