Tillie

2014 - 2026

She was my best friend.
Not the kind who needed explanations
or matching outfits,
or clean hair,
or bravery.

She loved me exactly as I was—
on my worst days,
with tears soaking into her fur,
her body pressed against mine
like an anchor saying,
I’m not going anywhere.
You can rest now.

She never moved
until I slept.

She loved cheese.
And sharing leftover steak with Pepper,
because joy was meant to be divided.
She loved sleeping in
even more than I did—
a true commitment to comfort.

Outside was business.
No dilly-dallying.
Potty, done, back inside.
Back to her bed.
Back to watching me work.
Back to napping in front of the fire
like that was her real job all along.

She didn’t want adventures.
Kayaks? Canoes?
Absolutely not.
That life jacket was ridiculous
and she was deeply relieved
when that chapter ended.

Home was her adventure.
Warmth. Routine. Me.

She loved being “kidnapped” by Gavin,
carried from my bed to his,
because it made her feel chosen—
the best dog in the house.

And she was.

She was the best dog.

Not because she did tricks
or chased joy loudly,
but because she stayed.
Because she knew
that love is quiet,
steady,
and close.

And now the house feels louder without her.
The silence hurts.
My body aches with missing her.
And I want this pain to stop.

But love doesn’t disappear—
it just changes shape.
It becomes grief.
It becomes memory.
It becomes the warmth
I’ll feel one day
when I think of her
and don’t break in two.

Until then,
I will miss her
with my whole heart.

Because she gave me hers
every single day.