Film and television writer A.J. Symon reflects on the lessons our pets teach us and how writing his debut novel, Golden Boy (Simon & Schuster, Aug. 25), helped him cope with the loss of his beloved service dog.

I’m not a crier.

Let me correct that: I used to not be a crier. I cry a lot now. And that’s a good thing.

My family doesn’t cry. We don’t hug. We’re not given to overt displays of emotion at either end of the spectrum. I’m not sure exactly why, but I suppose it’s the fear that one might lose control. And that would be worse than unseemly; it would be tacky.

Growing up, there was only one member of the entire family who was allowed to display or to receive any kind of emotion: our dog.

The dog was allowed to jump up and slobber you with kisses. When he tracked mud all over the house, his only punishment was an indulgent smile.

And you could hug him. You could pet him and scratch his belly and tell him you loved him, and no one thought it embarrassing in the least. It was, in fact, the only affection my parents ever displayed toward anyone in the family throughout the entirety of my youth. The dog was the beneficiary of all their repression.

That stoicism would haunt me more than half my life. Even when my father died, I didn’t cry. No one did. We sat at his memorial service with the appropriate composed expressions, and then went home, where some of us, I assume, took off our stiff upper lips and had a good, solitary cry. I never did. Repressing emotion was so ingrained by then; I prided myself on my resilience.

Years later, I was diagnosed with a seizure disorder. That was when I met my service dog, a golden retriever named Chip. Even as a writer, I can’t find words that do our relationship justice. Imagine a divine being who is your constant companion, your caretaker, your child, your confidante, your cheerleader, your guardian angel, your best friend, your soul. He was that and so much more, for 10 years. I was reared to love dogs—taught that it was safe to love dogs—and I loved Chip with unrestrained abandon.

Two years ago, I lost Chip to a cancer so aggressive that by the time symptoms presented, it was too late. He was diagnosed on Wednesday and gone on Thursday. It broke me. I had no tools to deal with that kind of grief. I spent hours trying to distract myself with TV and books, but I was haunted by that empty spot where Chip should be.

At some point, I went to my desk and started writing. I became consumed with an idea I had years ago about a dog who becomes a human football star.

The story became my novel Golden Boy, about a teenage science prodigy named Emma whose only friend is her golden retriever Hudson. Emma has recently lost her mother, but her father Wayman refuses even to acknowledge it. Everyone has retreated to their emotional corners.

When Hudson gets sick, Emma tries to save him with one of her science projects and accidently turns him into a human being. Wayman, the coach of her school’s failing football team, is so impressed by Hudson’s athletic prowess, he gets a crazy idea: put Hudson on the team! As Emma and her father work together to help Hudson learn football, their relationship thaws, and their hearts open.

Maybe my psyche’s self-defense mechanism was putting a little distance between me and my feelings by expressing them through a set of fictional characters. Everything I felt about Chip emerged through their voices.

I wrote and cried, and cried and wrote—and wrote and cried some more.

I can safely say that I have now mastered crying.

But it wasn’t all pain—far from it. Writing this fun, funny story also allowed me to relive Chip’s playfulness, his sweetness, and his unconditional love. I discovered unbridled joy.

Writing Golden Boy opened my heart to the full range of emotions. Hudson teaches Emma, Wayman, and the entire town to jump into life with all four paws. Eat off the floor. Roll in the mud. Love with all your being. Don’t be afraid. Life is about getting dirty. You may feel foolish or embarrassed or even get hurt. But if you can’t feel pain, you’ll never feel joy. Sometimes it takes a dog to show us what it means to be fully human.