Letter to My Brave Beautiful Dog

 

To My Brave, Beautiful Dog,

You are a wild, tender mystery—a creature of lightning shakes and thunderous snores, of moonlight paws padding down the hallway just to check on me. You carry the heart of a wolf and the soul of a poet who only speaks in licks and sighs.

I see you. The way you tilt your head at the wind, as if listening to some secret I can’t hear. The way you press your weight against my legs when the world feels too heavy, like you’re holding me together without a sound. You pretend not to notice when I cry, but you always bring me your favorite toy after, as if to say, "Here, this fixes things."

You don’t have to be good. (Though you are—so, so good.) You don’t have to earn your place. You carved it into the bedrock of my life the moment you chose me, and now I can’t remember what the silence felt like before you.

Be proud of your scars, your goofy grin, the way you snore like a chainsaw but wake up delicately, as if afraid to break the morning. Be proud of the way you love—without maps, without conditions, as if devotion is as simple as breathing.

The world moves too fast for creatures like you. They don’t see the way you memorize the exact sound of my keys in the door, or how you sigh when dreams take you somewhere far away. But I do. I see it all.

One day, time will try to steal the weight of your head from my lap, the warmth of your paw on my knee. But listen closely, my wild-hearted friend: You are not a chapter in my life. You are the ink.

And long after the last page, I will still be listening for you—in the creak of the floorboards, in the rustle of leaves, in every quiet place where love outlives bones.