“Man’s best friend” — that phrase doesn’t even come close to capturing what you meant to me.
I used to tell people that I found you digging through my trash, but the truth is, I think you found me. It was fate. You appeared in my life at one of my lowest points, bringing with you a kind of joy I hadn’t known I needed. You didn’t just find my house; you found me.
You showed up every single day, and it wasn’t for the food — I know my cooking sucks. You came back for me, knowing somehow I needed you. I could always tell you were nearby because I’d smell you before I saw you—stinky boy. And there you’d be, wagging your tail so hard I feared it might fall off. Adopting you wasn’t a decision; it was destiny—one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
Every day, for the last year, you’d barge into my room to say hello, and it didn’t take long before you mastered jumping up on the bed. Once you did, that was it — no going back. Rain or shine, muddy paws or clean, you’d snuggle up as if that bed had always been yours.
Now, coming home feels hollow. It’s been two nights, and I still expect you to be there, waiting, ready to greet me with that boundless enthusiasm only you had. I miss your wild zoomies and fur on all my clothes. I miss your insatiable appetite and the way you’d check your food bowl, even at 3 a.m., just to make sure nothing new had appeared.
I’ll miss you, Spike — the brave, the curious, the plant-slayer, my friend.
