His name was Bear, and he was mostly ears and paws when we brought him home in that cardboard box. He had that intoxicating puppy breath and a coat that felt like mink. I remember the way he’d "patrol" the hallway of our second home with a serious, tilted-head intensity, as if he were guarding a royal palace instead of a suburban ranch house. He was my shadow; wherever I sat, a heavy, warm chin would inevitably find its way onto my knee. We went on thousands of walks, through blizzards and heatwaves, his tail a steady metronome of loyalty. He taught me more about unconditional love than any book ever could. When he got old and his muzzle turned white, he’d still try to wag his tail when I walked in the door, even when his hips wouldn't let him stand. He’s been gone for years, but I still catch myself looking at his favorite corner of the rug, half-expecting to see those big brown eyes looking back.
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