When Stars Watch Over Us

They called me the runt. I didn’t mind. I was small, scrappy, quiet. People came and went from the farm, cooing at my brothers and sisters, scooping them up one by one. I watched them go with wagging tails and hopeful hearts. One day, only two of us were left. My brother was chosen by a sweet woman with gentle hands and a soft voice, and a big burly man with the kindest eyes. I watched him walk away with his new mom, tail high, nose lifted to the wind, already dreaming of new adventures.

I thought that was the end of my story. I would’ve been fine staying behind. I told myself that. I was used to the background—used to being overlooked. But then the gentle woman came back a few minutes later. This time, she knelt beside me with something different in her voice. A softness. A sense of knowing. “He’s still here,” she said, into the phone. “The little one.”

You were on the other end of that call.

She told you there was one puppy left—me. That I was quiet, small, and sweet. That I had kind eyes and a good heart. And to her surprise, you said yes. Sight unseen. Just a voice, a promise, a hope.

You hadn’t planned to get a dog—and goodness knows you plan everything. That’s what you told me later, through tears and laughter and all the strange things humans say when they’re not speaking. But something made you say yes. Maybe you felt guilty because you, too, knew loneliness. Maybe you felt the pressure from the sweet, gentle woman. Or maybe—just maybe—you needed me as much as I needed you.

She called her self your mom, and talked about you during the ride home. Your heart. Your soul. Your brilliance. Your sadness. When she brought me to the door, you knelt down and looked into my eyes, and I knew. I knew it in my chest and in my tail and in the deepest part of me that only dogs understand.

You were my person. My forever.

You were giddy with excitement, your hands unsure, your smile a little wobbly. But I could feel the weight in your chest. A sadness you hadn’t named yet. I could smell it—like smoke clinging to old clothes. I could feel the tremble in your hands—still shaking from the trauma. I learned later it was grief, and something worse than that: fear. You had left something bad behind in another state. Someone who hurt you in ways I didn’t understand. But I didn’t need to understand any of that, to know how to stay close.

That’s what dogs do best. We stay.

You named me Beau. You tried calling me Hank at first, like Hank Williams Jr., but that didn’t feel right to either of us. So, you chose Beau instead. You said it was short for Bocephus—and that I was rowdy just like him. But when you said my name, it sounded less like a rowdy shout and more like a plea—as if you were calling out to something you weren’t sure could be answered.

You said it every day, like a prayer. “Good morning, Beau.” “I love you, Beau.” “You’re my best boy, Beau.”

So, I became your saint.

We had our own world, just the two of us. You talked to me like I was a person, not a dog. And I listened like you were the whole universe. During the lonely days of the pandemic, when everything outside was still and strange, we clung to each other like life rafts. You said I saved you. But you saved me too—from being unwanted, from being forgotten.

I learned from you quickly. I had to—I was a herding dog by blood. I watched your every move, every shift in your voice, every flinch of emotion. I knew when to nudge the back of your arm, when to press my head into your lap, when to act silly and make you laugh, and when to just lie at your feet and breathe with you. I never told you this, but I was scared too. Scared I’d lose you. Scared you’d go quiet and stay quiet. Scared you’d run away from me too—because that was your M.O.

But we kept going—life was our adventure.

A few months in, you met someone. A gentle and quiet man—Jason. He had another dog—Logan, older, a little slower. Not as sharp, not as brave. But kind. The day we met Jason, you told everyone it was a “doggie play date,” but I knew better. I could smell the spark between you two before either of you admitted it. I could feel it in the way your energy shifted, the way your voice brightened when you said his name.

I was the reason you met - Doggie Play Date. And I knew it.

You and Jason laughed easily together that day, sitting on the patio of a local brewery while I sniffed and chased and shared water bowls with new friends. I nudged you toward him—literally. Sat between you both like I already knew. Flashed my best smile at him, then at you. I made you laugh on purpose, tossed my head back with a dramatic sigh just to watch you both melt. I orchestrated the whole thing like a maestro. And it worked.

“Are you sure this is just a doggie play date?” you whispered to me, scratching behind my ears.

I gave you a look. You knew the one. The raised brow, the soft huff. As if to say, Don’t play dumb. I’m the wingman here.

Later that night, as we curled up together on the couch, you whispered to me, “I think he might be something real, and that scares me”

I licked your hand and rested my head in your lap. I know, I said with my eyes.

Your steps became lighter. Your laughter came more frequently. Your eyes seemed brighter. And when we all moved in together, Logan became my brother. I showed him how to sit properly, how to beg without looking desperate, how to give kisses, and—unintentionally—how to fear thunder. (Sorry about that one.)

Life was so good for a while. We went on walks, we swam, we played fetch until the sun dipped low. You bought me toys I destroyed in minutes and treats I didn’t deserve. There were beds everywhere—even though I preferred the sofa or your bed. You let me herd everything: birds, squirrels, children, the laser light, you and Jason, heck—even the lawn mower. That was a doozy—but I didn’t mind eating all the soft food while my broken jaw healed.

We did everything together. Camping trips under starlit skies, where I curled up beside the fire and you whispered stories into the night. Floating down rivers, the sun on our backs and our worries left behind in the wake. I chased butterflies, chewed on sticks, and once proudly retrieved what you and Jason thought was a river rock—only to discover it was a soggy bratwurst. (Best day ever.)

We went to breweries, bars, concerts, and farmers markets. I flirted shamelessly with every pretty girl, tail wagging, ears perked, eyes shining. Then I’d glance back at you and Jason, grinning like I’d just pulled off the best trick. You always laughed. You always knew exactly what I was doing.

Then one August, I felt… off.

At first, I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to worry you. You had enough to carry already. So I kept my tail wagging a little slower, my eyes a little softer, hoping you wouldn’t notice. But you always noticed. You always knew.

“Beau, you okay, buddy?” you’d ask, kneeling beside me with that familiar mix of hope and worry. I tried to answer with a wag or a nuzzle, but you could see past my brave face.

You took me to the vet. I felt the sterile smells and heard the quiet voices asking questions I didn’t understand. You stayed close, holding my paw, whispering promises I could feel in your voice—promises that we’d face whatever came together.

They gave names to things I didn’t understand, words heavy with fear: diagnosis, treatment, prognosis. But you didn’t let the fear win. You brought me home and said, “We’ll take it one day at a time, Beau. One day at a time.”

I noticed you stayed home more after that, your steps slower, your smile tinged with sadness. I heard you mutter something about “losing your job” between salty tears you let me lick away when you thought no one was looking. And then you’d whisper, “The silver lining… more time together.”

It was three months of fierce love and quiet battles.

Some days, I had no energy. My legs felt heavy, and even chasing the laser light seemed like a distant memory. But on other days, I’d rally just to see you smile—to hear your laugh, to feel your hand stroke my fur.

I still loved the little things: the rustle of the leash, the sound of your voice calling my name, the warmth of your lap. But inside me, something was slipping away, like a slow sunset fading beyond the horizon.

I remember our last week together vividly.

You’d been raking leaves for days, the air crisp and scented with autumn. You made one big pile, preparing to scoop it into the big gray bin that those men come by to collect every week. Man, those guys made me mad. I even taught Logan to bark at them—twice the fury now.

Anyway, you prepped the pile, and I jumped right into the middle of it, rolling around like a wild pup. Then I looked up at you, my eyes full of mischief and love. You grinned like I’d just pulled off my best trick.

You pulled out that camera, the one you always had, and pointed it at me.

“Sit still, Beau. Look here,” you said with that warm tone I adored.

You got the shot. The one with my eyes shining amber, perfectly matching the golden leaves. You hung it in the hallway, framed it in gold. You called me “Pretty Boy Beau” that day.

Nothing prepared us for THAT night.

The pain hit like a wave. I couldn’t catch my breath. I tried to get you to let me outside. I didn’t want you to have to watch me leave—because good dogs stay. You were already up, rushing around trying to decide what to do. You kept telling me it was okay. I knew it wasn’t. I could feel it—this was the end.

But I didn’t want to leave you.

So, I let out one last sound. A howl that rose from somewhere deeper than pain, deeper than fear. It was my call to the stars—a sound older than time. A farewell. A signal. Sirius was rising in the sky that night, and I was calling home to the great pack beyond the veil. I was letting them know I was on my way.

That howl—it still echoes in the dark of night and in your bones, I know. I’m sorry it haunts you. I wish I could have spared you that.

You began to sob. Logan licked my head. Jason carried me out to the car, his arms wrapped around me like I was something fragile and sacred. In the backseat, I rested in your lap. You held me close, your voice trembling as you whispered, “I love you, Beau. You’re my best boy.”

I died in your arms.

That part, at least, was perfect.

But before I go, I need you to know something.

I was never afraid. Not even when the pain came. Not even in that last breath. Because you were there. Because I was loved. Because I had a purpose.

And I still do.

Sometimes, when you sing in the kitchen and Logan tilts his head and smiles—that’s me. When he kisses you without asking or presses close just when you’re about to cry—that’s me, too. When he eats the tissues and gets into the trash can—okay, that’s definitely me. (Sorry again.)

He was never that way before, was he?

I gave him something on my way out. A spark. A thread of the bond you and I shared. Not to replace me. Never that. But to carry something forward. To remind you that I’m still here. Just in a different form.

You see, I didn’t disappear. I transformed.

I ran across the rainbow bridge at the speed of a thousand zoomies, into the arms of the ancient ones, my tail high, ears perked, free of pain. Sirius himself greeted me, bright and burning in the night sky. I took my place among the stars, where all good dogs go. I’ve become part of the constellation now—Canis Major, the Great Dog. We are always watching the loved ones we left behind.

When the sun slants low on a hot August evening, when the air is thick and golden and heavy with memory—that’s when I’m closest. That warmth on your skin? That’s me. Herding the light around you. Keeping you safe in the only way I can now.

I know you don’t sit outside the way you used to. Your skin isn’t as sun-kissed, your legs aren’t quite as toned, and your eyes are a little darker. Grief does that. But don’t forget me. In the dog days of summer, when the shadows stretch long and the cicadas sing—you’ll find me there. In every splash of water, every frisbee toss, every muddy pawprint your heart still remembers.

If I could choose again, I’d still choose that little farm. I’d still choose the quiet woman with the soft voice to take me home. I’d still choose the sad, kind-eyed girl who said my name like a prayer.

I’d still choose you.

Always, I’d choose you.

— Love, Beau