Biscuit

Biscuit came home in the spring of 2012, small enough to fit in two cupped hands, with a coat that could not decide between black and gold. He decided almost everything else himself.

He was a Pomeranian with the confidence of a much larger dog. He guarded the front step as if the whole street depended on him, and greeted every delivery with the same outraged dignity. The cardboard boxes, he believed, were his.

His place was the doorway. From there he could see the kitchen and the front door at once, and nobody could leave without him knowing. In the evenings he walked the garden path slowly, stopping at every corner as if he were reading the news.

He was not a dog for tricks. He was a dog for company. He followed the sun across the kitchen tiles all afternoon, and when someone in the house was sad, he came and lay against their feet without being asked.

For fourteen years he was the first to hear the key in the lock. The house is quieter now. The step is still there, and so is the habit of looking down to see if he is waiting.