In Their Words:

Angel

If you met her, you wouldn’t think anything dramatic about her.

She wasn’t loud.
She didn’t demand attention.
She didn’t try to be anything more than what she was.

And somehow… she became everything.

Her name was Angel.

She didn’t need a leash. I could open the door and she would just walk beside me like that’s how it had always been. Not trained. Not told. She just stayed.

She had this way of always being there without making it obvious. I’d go into another room, and a minute later she’d show up, settle in, and it would feel like she’d been there the whole time.

She picked her spots like they meant something. The couch, certain corners, places she quietly claimed. And once she chose them, that was it. They just became hers.

She was stubborn too—but calm about it. If she didn’t feel like coming in from outside, she wasn’t coming in. You could call her ten times and she’d stay stretched out in the sun like she didn’t hear a thing. Most of the time we had to go get her and carry her in.

She loved the sun. You could see it in the way she laid there, completely still, like she was absorbing it. And the beach… if there was water, she was in it. No hesitation. I’d throw a stick and she’d go back and forth like she could do it forever.

She loved car rides. Loved being part of whatever I was doing. If I was in the kitchen, she was there. If I was baking, she was part of it. If I made cookies, I made her one too. No chocolate. That was just how it worked.

I used to share my cereal with her right off the spoon. Never thought twice about it.

At night she’d jump into bed and work her way under the blankets until she got right up against me. Then she’d settle in and just stay there. Warm, solid, like that was exactly where she belonged.

When she was younger, I could call her and she’d jump straight up into my arms. She loved being held like that—close, right against me.

She was so smart, but not in a show-off way. Just in the small things. The way she knew routines. Knew people. Knew exactly what was hers and where she was allowed to be.

And she had toys… more than she needed. Two hampers full, a crate in the hallway. She didn’t care what kind—if it was soft, it was hers.

But every single one… she chewed the eyes out of it.

Every time.

You’d give her something new and it wouldn’t take long before it looked like it had seen things. Eyes gone, stuffing coming out… and she’d just be laying there beside it like everything was completely normal.

Some of them she played with. Some of them she just kept close. You’d find them beside her bed, or wherever she decided to settle that day.

She had a way of being part of everything without taking anything over. The house never felt empty with her in it. Even when nothing was happening, it felt like something was there.

Not loud.
Not big.
Just… there.

Eighteen years of that.