Lori

Lori wasn’t just a dog, she was a little shadow with ears like velvet and eyes that seemed too wise for her size. A proper lady, that one. Sweet-natured, never in a rush, never cross. We got her when the house had gone too quiet. The kids had grown up and gone off to university and I was rattling around with too many spare hours and not enough purpose. Enter Lori, all big brown eyes and a tail that wagged like it meant something. She chose us as much as we chose her. She had a dainty way of walking, like she didn’t want to disturb the floor. She’d trot along beside me on morning walks like a princess taking in her kingdom. Never pulled on the lead. Never barked at other dogs. She had manners, our Lori. Her favourite place in the world was the window seat in the lounge. Sunlight would pour in and she’d stretch out like she’d booked herself in for a spa day. She snored, delicately, but enough to make you smile. And when I had a bad day, she’d rest her chin on my knee and just be there, like that was her job and she was proud to do it. Everyone who met her loved her. She had a way of making people feel calm. Children, elderly neighbours, even the postman—she made friends of them all. She was a soft presence in a hard world. In her last days, she slept more than ever. Still wanted to sit with me, still gave those slow blinks like, “I’m alright, Mum.” When she passed, it was in her sleep, curled on her blanket. I still catch myself looking down for her. Thank you, Lori. For every quiet comfort, for every loyal moment. You made this house feel full again.