Not the “big events” — the quiet proof that a dog can stitch themselves into your everyday life… until the everyday is what hurts the most.
You didn’t run to me — you inched closer, shaking. Then you pressed your forehead into my palm, like you’d chosen me quietly… completely.
You cried when the lights went out, so I slept beside you. When your breathing softened, I learned love can sound like a small dog finally feeling safe.
You attacked the water like it was the world’s funniest enemy. I’d give anything to hear that soaked, unstoppable joy again.
You ran ahead, then turned around — every time — to make sure I was there. Like love checks in, even when it’s free.
Streetlights flickered across your face while you watched the world pass by. You glanced at me like you were counting reasons you felt safe.
You sat so politely, pretending not to beg — but your eyes said everything. I miss being fooled by that “innocent” face.
Same sunlight, same patient sigh. You lifted your head when I passed like you’d been keeping the day warm for me.
When I slowed down, you slowed too — no tugging, no impatience. Just your quiet decision to match my pace.
You stole one sock and sprinted away like it was a grand heist. I chase that laughter now, and it always slips through my hands.
Your fur was soaked, your steps were slow — but you still looked up like I was worth the last bit of your strength.
You stopped and waited without being asked. Like you knew some days my heart needed you to walk slower.
You slept with your head on my wrist like it belonged there. I memorised your breathing like a prayer.
You greeted me like I’d been gone for years — every time. You taught my house how to feel like home.
At every red light you leaned closer, like you were checking I was still real. I miss being “checked on” by you.
I was the one shaking. You nudged your nose into my palm — gentle, apologetic — like you were sorry your body was hurting me.
You leaned against my leg like a promise. No words — just warmth, and the certainty I wasn’t alone.
You didn’t just wag your tail — you smiled with your whole face. I didn’t know gratitude could look like that.
You didn’t run as far, but you still tried — just to keep me smiling. You gave me your “best” even when you were tired.
You stared at me a little longer — calm, trusting. Like you believed I could keep you safe from time.
The room went unbearably still when you left. The corners still expect you. So does my heart.
I wake up listening for your paws. Some habits don’t break — they turn into heartbreak you carry quietly so the day can continue.
Your leash still hangs where it always did. I touch it like it’s a door handle to the past — but it never opens.
I didn’t realise a corner could feel loud until yours went quiet. Now even the floor looks like it’s waiting for you.
Your blanket still smells like you if I’m brave enough to hold it close. Love turns comfort into something that hurts to breathe.
I scroll through memories like rosary beads — one after another — trying to convince myself you were real, and not just my best dream.
I still look down to check you’re there — a reflex my body refuses to surrender. Some goodbyes echo.
It’s silly how a little toy can bring me to my knees. You made ordinary things sacred by loving them.
The passenger seat feels too big now. I used to drive with one hand — because the other always found its way to you.
I still brace for the sound of you scrambling to greet me. Every time it doesn’t happen, the air drops out of the room.
I lit a candle and whispered your name like it could reach you. I don’t know where love goes after goodbye — I just know it doesn’t disappear.