There are countless rumors and swirling theories about how the writers of Chicago Fire will ultimately address the fates of Carver and Ritter, especially given how season 13’s finale left those storylines hanging in a cloud of uncertainty. The future of these characters is anything but clear. But within the flames of these uncertainties, one glaring oversight becomes even more painful: a beloved member of Firehouse 51, gone for seasons now, was never properly replaced.

Her name was Tuesday — a polka-dotted Dalmatian with a nervous spark and a zest for chaos that made her an unforgettable presence. From the moment she arrived in season 7, Tuesday ignited a ripple of confusion, excitement, and love through the firehouse. While not everyone warmed up to her immediately — Herrmann, ever the stickler for order, found her presence something of a nuisance at first — Tuesday soon wrapped every single heart at Firehouse 51 around her paw.

Tuesday was a furball of pandemonium. Her energy was unstoppable, dashing across the station floor whenever Ritter attempted to leash her, sending equipment, food, and sometimes a firefighter or two flying in the process. Stella Kidd, the determined and ever-passionate fan of Tuesday, even tried to train her for a dog talent contest — with results that were as hilariously catastrophic as you might imagine. One memorable moment saw Tuesday accused of mauling a young girl, only for it to turn out she’d simply been licking peanut butter off her face, all with that signature puppy innocence that melted even the hardest hearts.

But the joy Tuesday brought to the team didn’t last forever. In a tragic twist, she passed away off-screen after season 10, leaving a silence in the station that no one truly knew how to fill. The commotion, the laughter, the warm dog kisses — all of it vanished, leaving behind an unspoken ache.

Yet the series seemed poised to fix that void, if only it had taken its chance. In season 13, episode 8, a new four-legged friend made a surprise entrance. Enter Fridge, a soulful, loyal dog who appeared exactly when Carver needed him the most. After Fridge’s owner suffered a devastating leg injury in a horrifying accident, Carver — emotionally raw and reeling from Tori leaving him — took Fridge under his wing. Kidd managed to secure permission for Fridge to stay at 51 temporarily, and during that time, Fridge worked quiet wonders. The bond between him and Carver was immediate and powerful, giving Carver a companion who listened without judging, who comforted him without question, who healed his heart in a way no human could.

It was a moment of hope, of healing. For a while, it seemed Fridge might be the permanent answer — the perfect, much-needed successor to Tuesday. But then Fridge’s owner pulled through, recovered, and reclaimed his dog. Firehouse 51 lost its second chance at filling Tuesday’s paw prints, and the opportunity slipped away like water through their hands.

Why is that such a tragedy? Because Chicago Fire has shown time and time again that a dog at Firehouse 51 is more than just a mascot. These brave men and women face trauma, death, loss, and horror on a near-daily basis. They’re haunted by the flames, by screams, by the memories of rescues gone wrong. A dog is a small but profound reprieve from that constant burden. A wagging tail, a goofy bark, the pure and wordless love that dogs radiate — it gives these heroes an anchor, something simple and joyful to cling to.

Pouch, the first firehouse dog, made the idea of a four-legged companion not just acceptable, but celebrated. Tuesday elevated that even further, proving that a dog’s presence is essential to the station’s spirit. Stella absolutely sparkled whenever Tuesday was in the room, her smile a thousand watts brighter. Herrmann, who had once been so against the pup, ended up a fan, doting on Tuesday like a proud uncle. Ritter, of course, found Tuesday to be a loyal and constant source of comfort.

Now, with Ritter’s exit looming and the station once again facing changes, Tuesday’s memory feels more important than ever. Bringing in a new firehouse dog wouldn’t just be about filling empty space — it would honor the spirit that Ritter and Tuesday built together.

There’s more at stake here, too. Chicago Fire has never shied away from breaking its viewers’ hearts, from gut-punching plot twists to tear-jerking character deaths. But even network dramas need rays of light — those moments that remind audiences why these characters keep fighting, why they get back up every time the world tries to knock them down. Dogs have a way of selling happiness like nothing else can.

When Fridge showed up at Carver’s lowest, he was a beacon of hope. And in a station still mourning Monica’s tragic passing, still navigating heartbreaks like Carver and Violet’s unraveling romance, a dog could once more give Firehouse 51 the family feeling it so desperately needs. Dogs don’t judge. They don’t abandon. They don’t complicate things with secrets or old grudges. They simply love, and that love becomes a lifeline for everyone around them.

Yes, Chicago Fire can mine comic relief from Herrmann’s dramatic rants about Certs or Novak’s playful teasing about Damon’s fear of commitment, but those laughs only go so far. Nothing brings a sense of unfiltered, earnest joy like a firehouse dog bounding through the halls. With Pouch gone, Tuesday gone, and Fridge unable to stay, Firehouse 51 is missing a beating heart it once had — one with four paws, a lolling tongue, and a tail that never stops wagging.

Viewers have watched these firefighters conquer the impossible, fight their own demons, and wrestle with tragedies that would break most people. They’ve leaned on each other, but they’ve also leaned on their animals, who ask nothing of them but a scratch behind the ears.

If Chicago Fire truly wants to preserve the soul of Firehouse 51, it should not overlook what Tuesday meant. Tuesday was more than a pet; she was family. And the best way to honor her memory, to keep her spirit alive, would be to finally give the crew another companion who can chase away the shadows with a bark, a playful pounce, and a warm presence that says, “Everything is going to be okay.”

In a world where flames threaten to consume everything, sometimes the smallest sparks — a dog’s boundless affection — can light the way home. The chance to heal was there. The crew was ready. And Chicago Fire, heartbreakingly, missed it.