Mindy

Mindy was the softest part of my days, the warm spot on the sofa, the quiet heartbeat at the foot of the bed. She didn’t need to do much to be everything. A look, a nuzzle, that funny little spin she’d do when I came through the door. It was all enough. She was enough. More than enough. We’d had dogs before, bigger ones, noisier ones. But Mindy was different. She was light-footed, like a breeze in the room, and always aware of what I was doing. If I went into the kitchen, she followed. If I opened a drawer, she’d be right there, sniffing like it might be for her. It usually was. I could never resist that face. She had those big, dark eyes, framed by soft curls, and a nose like a tiny heart. She looked like a stuffed toy but had a will of her own. She wasn't silly, she just knew her way around us. Knew when to nudge my hand for a cuddle and when to sit quietly beside me while I read or dozed off in the chair. She never needed long walks, just short trots where she could sniff the same patch of grass she’d sniffed a hundred times before. That was her idea of an adventure, familiar and full of meaning. In her later years, she slowed down a lot. Her coat stayed snowy white, but her legs got a bit wobbly. She still wagged her tail when I boiled the kettle, though. Still tried to climb on my lap, even when she didn’t quite make it the first go. Mindy passed on a sunny morning, curled up in her favourite blanket. Peaceful. Quiet. Just as she’d lived. The house is very still now. But her warmth lingers, like she’s just nipped into another room.