Goldie

Goldie was the dog I’d always imagined having, even as a child. She was everything you picture when you think of a golden retriever, soft eyes, waggy tail and a heart made entirely of kindness. She joined us when I’d just retired from teaching. The house was too quiet, the garden too still. Goldie brought life back into it all. She was calm, yes, but with this sunny joy that radiated off her. Never any fuss. She just wanted to be nearby—feet under your chair, head on your slipper, sighing happily after a walk. She adored children, which made sense, as I suppose I did too. We used to visit the local library together. Children would sit cross-legged beside her, reading aloud, and she’d lie there, tongue out, tail occasionally thudding—listening as if every single word mattered. She slowed down a great deal in the last year. The walks became shorter, the naps longer. But she never stopped following me from room to room, even if it took her a while. The last evening she was with us, she rested her head on my lap and just looked at me. I’ll never forget that gaze. It said everything, without needing a sound.