Bella

Bella came home with me on a rainy Tuesday in October. She was the runt of the litter, all ears and no coordination, and she fell asleep in my lap on the drive back. That was the first time she trusted me. She kept trusting me for twelve years.

She loved three things more than anything in the world: the lake by our house, a torn-up tennis ball, and the sound of my car in the driveway. The lake was where she became herself. The moment her paws hit water she turned into something weightless, something younger than her years.

On her last morning I made her pancakes, the way I did every Sunday. She only ate half. I knew then. We sat on the porch together and she put her head on my knee the same way she did on the drive home twelve years before.

I designed her keepsake the night after. I wanted something I could hold during meetings, during flights, during the quiet Sunday mornings. A necklace, with the curve of her nose etched into the gold. It isn’t a replacement. It’s a continuation. She’s still here. She’s just smaller now.