Today’s post is a little different. It’s not about the music industry, media, or technology. It’s about a seven-pound Chihuahua named Cesar who, until recently, was one of my best friends, my tiny teacher, and, quite honestly, the most emotionally intelligent animal I’ve ever met.
Since he’s been gone, I still find myself looking for him in sunlit corners, in the rustle of a treat bag, in the quiet moments that used to be filled with his breathing. Grief has a way of hiding in the smallest places and so do life’s lessons.
He only weighed seven pounds, but he carried more heart than most people I know. In fact, his heart was three times the size it was supposed to be. That’s how we lost him. But it’s also how he lived.
Let me tell you a little about Cesar.
His eyes looked like little blueberries who want to comfort your soul. If you’ve ever been on a Zoom with me, you’ve probably seen him in the background. He didn’t bark. Didn’t bite. Didn’t act like the stereotype. He was the opposite: calm, grounded, instantly loving.
Despite being a Chihuahua, my wife Molly rescued him from a Pomeranian shelter. He had belonged to a man who passed away, and his widow surrendered him. I don’t think she realized she was giving up a professor of fur.
There’s a saying about rescue dogs; The Rule of Threes: It takes three days for their nervous system to settle, three weeks to learn your routine, and three months to feel like they’re truly home.
But Cesar didn’t need time. He chose us from minute one.
No warming up. No testing. Just love. Just trust. The kind of radical, unconditional trust most of us spend our whole lives trying to get right in our families, businesses, and relationships. Cesar just had it.
Obviously, Cesar couldn’t teach me how to lead a team but he did teach me how to lead with a heart. A heart that doesn’t keep score.
When I was burning out at work, struggling in my relationships, and spinning a dozen plates, Cesar would paw at my leg and insist—not ask—that I pick him up. He didn’t speak, but the message was clear: Phil, none of this matters, if you don’t slow down.
And every time I held him, it worked. I’d reframe, reprioritize, and realize that most of what I worry about is just noise.
In a world obsessed with productivity, Cesar reminded me: the most important work is simply being present.
He loved tennis balls and sunbathing. That was his routine. Chase. Bake. Nap. Repeat. As simple as it sounds, it taught me something else: joy doesn’t come from a breakthrough moment, it lives in repeatable rituals that make you feel alive.
Find your ball. Your sun. Your people.
While I was chasing KPIs, Cesar was chasing tennis balls and – somehow – he was the one living right.
Even as his health declined, he never complained. We had to put him in little diapers because of kidney issues, and no matter what ridiculous style I picked, he wore them with grace. Dignified. Unshaken.
When he was first diagnosed with a heart condition, doctors gave him six months to live.
He gave us eighteen.
No drama. No whining. Just quiet resilience. He didn’t live like time was running out. He lived like time was lucky to still have him.
So often in life, we hear bad news and start the countdown. We brace for the end. But Cesar reminded me: what matters most isn’t how long you live, it’s how you live.
He didn’t chase more days. He filled the ones he had.
You can’t add more days to your life, but you can add more life to your days.
Cesar showed me that kindness isn’t weakness; it’s the truest form of strength. Leadership isn’t about being in control; it’s about creating a space where others feel safe. And Cesar made people feel safe just by being himself.
Cesar passed a few weeks ago. But his reminders are everywhere; in the moments where I want to react instead of respond, in the meetings where empathy feels like a stretch, in the days I’d rather chase my ego than the present moment. While my lap is empty, his lessons are full. Grief is complicated. But it proves something mattered.
If Cesar gave a TED Talk, it would be titled: You Don’t Have To Be Big To Do Big Things.
That’s a lesson for all of us, especially those who feel too small to matter, too under-resourced to lead, too overlooked to make an impact.
Cesar didn’t have a podcast, a LinkedIn profile, a corner office, or a speaking fee. He had a presence.
What he gave was love without conditions. And – somehow – without ever saying a word, he made every guest in our home feel welcome, every neighbor on our walks feel seen, safe and valued.
We live in a world constantly telling us we need more connections, more credentials, more clout but watching the way Cesar lived, reminded me to exist in a place of gratitude and not a place of comparison. His only goal was to show you he cared, never seeking titles, followers, or platforms.
Cesar was seven pounds. But his impact? Immeasurable.
I’m trying to be more like him now. To lead with kindness. To arrive without ego. To remind people they matter.
Recap: What Cesar Taught Me About Love, Life & Leadership
- Lead with presence, not performance.
Cesar never had a platform, but made everyone feel safe and seen. - Trust freely.
No warm-up period. Just instant, radical trust. - Kindness isn’t weakness.
True strength isn’t loud—it’s loving. - Leadership isn’t control.
It’s creating a space where people feel safe enough to create. - You don’t need to be big to do big things.
Big change starts with small, consistent actions. - Presence > Productivity.
You can’t be productive if you’re not present. - Joy lives in the simple rituals.
Find your sun, your ball, your people. - Be still while others spiral.
Be the calmest person in the room. - Resilience doesn’t need to roar.
Just because someone gives you their life timeline doesn’t mean you have to follow it. - Live like time is lucky to still have you.
While you can’t add more days to your life, you can add more life to your days.
If you’ve ever listened to the Phil-Osophy podcast, you’ve probably heard me sign off with a nod to the chihuahua and pug at my feet. Now it’s just Kipper, our little pug, quietly trying to fill the impossibly big shoes of his tiny, little brother.
This one’s for Cesar. The family member with literally the biggest heart in our house.
Goodbye, C.
By Phil Becker