Pepsi

Pepsi wasn’t just a dog. She was the heartbeat of the house, the gentle padding in the hallway, the sigh by the fireside when the day was done. She didn’t make a fuss—never had. Always one for steady routines and quiet dignity. But oh, she knew everything going on. You could see it in her eyes. She had a way of looking at you that made you feel like she was waiting patiently for you to catch up. Clever, but never pushy. She’d tilt her head when you spoke, as if weighing up your tone, then respond with a blink. Conversations didn’t need words with her. Pepsi loved a good nap in the warmest spot of any room. That thick, feathery coat of hers made her look like royalty reclining on a throne, even if it was just the corner of the rug. Walks were a dignified affair, nose down, tail level, ears bouncing with each step. Rain or shine, she went at her own pace. She was especially fond of the postman. Not in the barking, tail-chasing way. No, Pepsi sat like a sphinx, accepted the letterbox rattle and gave a single polite bark as if to say, “Yes, noted. That’ll do.” Everyone round here knew her. Most assumed she was older than she was, probably because she carried herself like a little old lady even as a pup. In the end, her body gave out before her spirit did. She was still sharp, still watching me right up to her final nap. I held her head in my lap and told her what a good girl she’d been. The best girl, really. It’s quiet now. Too quiet. I still find her fur in the corners and I don’t sweep it away. Not just yet.