Bisto

Bisto was a mountain of a dog, all fluff and heart, with a tongue that flopped out the side of his mouth like it had better things to do. He was the sort who turned heads on the street—not because he barked or bounded about, but because he carried himself with such calm dignity you couldn’t help but look twice. Kids would run up to him, wrap their arms around his thick coat and he’d just sit there, grinning, tail swaying like a metronome. He was gentle to the core. Never in a rush, unless there was roast chicken involved. And he loved being brushed—though only if he was in the mood. You could talk to Bisto for ages and he’d just look at you like he understood every word. Maybe he did. Now the house is quieter, the corner he used to nap in feels colder. But there’s still fur in the hoover, paw prints on our hearts and a whole load of love left behind. Sleep well, big lad. Bisto. Gone but never forgotten.