Micky Marshall 10/7/12-8/4/26

He was my fuzzy old soulmate.

Not just a dog. Not just a pet.
He was my shadow, my comfort, my constant. The quiet presence that made everything feel a little bit safer, a little bit softer.

He had this way about him — a little smile, a warm forehead, and the gentlest soul. Kissing his head was like kissing a furry little peanut, and I must have done it a thousand times. Probably more.

He was there for the ordinary days. The hard days. The ones where I didn’t have much to give. He never asked for anything other than to be close. And he always was.

The house feels different now. Quieter in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful yet. His fur is still on the couch, like proof that he was here, that he was real, that he was mine.

Letting him go was the hardest and kindest thing I have ever done. He didn’t suffer. He was held, loved, and safe — just like he always was.

I don’t think you ever really “get over” a dog like him. You just learn to carry them differently. In memories, in little habits, in the space they leave behind.

He was the goodest boy. Truly.

And I was so lucky to be his person.