Zero

You felt him before you noticed him — a small, steady presence that softened a room simply by being in it.

Zero was small — barely four pounds — tan and white, velvety soft and round, with legs so skinny I used to call him a sausage on sticks. And yet, nothing about him felt fragile. He was grounded. Calm. Certain.

People were always surprised by him. "He doesn't act like a chihuahua," they'd say. As if gentleness were unexpected. As if steadiness were rare. Zero changed minds without trying. He was the sweetest, most level-headed soul — a safe haven disguised as a tiny dog.

When new pups arrived at my daycare, shy or unsure, they found him. When broken rescues came through my door, carrying fear in their bodies, they found him too. Somehow, they always ended up beside Zero, sharing a bed, pressed close. He had a way of making space feel safe. Of making being feel enough.

Zero was pure bliss. And everyone knew it.

He had his quirks, of course. His favourite way to climb into your lap was backwards — tiny back legs stepping up first, careful and determined, as if this was the most logical way to enter love. And then there was his other nickname: Stalker. Because he followed me everywhere. Or if he couldn't, he followed me with his eyes. Always watching. Always there.

He loved food. Intensely. Insatiably. He carried a soft, pudgy roundness, as if joy had settled comfortably into his body and decided to stay.

Zero came to me when he was around four years old, unwanted by a family who no longer wanted him — a truth I still cannot understand. How do you not want perfection? From the moment he arrived, he fit in. Like he had always been meant to be here.

And then he was gone.

So suddenly. So violently fast. A dreadful weekend of sickness, hospitals, fear — and then silence. Only two weeks shy of his fifteenth birthday. He had been healthy. Happy. Whole. And then he wasn't.

The shock shattered me. Especially because it came only six weeks after losing Biggie. Two back-to-back losses that brought me to my knees. Zero and Biggie were bonded, deeply. Sometimes I wonder if Zero simply couldn't stand being apart from him — the way I still can't. If he followed him the way he always followed me.

But I wish he had known what his decision to follow Biggie did to me. How it broke me into pieces I'm still gathering.

This story doesn't know how to end yet, and maybe it never will. Some loves don't come to a clean conclusion — especially when they are taken without warning. The shock of losing him so suddenly still lives in my bones. And yet, he stays with me — quietly, faithfully.

I still feel his eyes on me sometimes.
Gentle. Steady. Certain.

As if he never really left.