MY CREW

My service dog Keva died and my kids told me to go find another dog but my heart wasn't in it until I went to the shelter and our eyes met and you were big black with brown on the edges but I knew you were more than the shelter said. those big brown eyes and that happiness as we met. It wasn't just a flicker; it was a beacon. A warmth that seeped into the hollow space Keva had left behind. You wagged your tail, not with the anxious desperation of a dog eager to please, but with a confident, knowing joy, as if you'd been waiting for me all along. The volunteers kept calling you "Colin" a generic name for a dog who was anything but. I saw a soul in those eyes, a silent understanding that transcended the sterile environment of the shelter.

You were a testament to resilience, a shadow of strength with that sturdy frame and the deep, rumbling rumble of a Rottweiler in your chest. The shelter staff, bless their well-meaning hearts, saw a mix, a jumble of breeds. But I saw you. I saw the unwavering loyalty etched in the set of your jaw, the protective instinct that pulsed beneath your thick, wiry coat, the same quiet confidence Keva had possessed. It was a language spoken without words, a recognition that echoed in the very core of my being.

As I knelt down, your tail thumped a steady rhythm against the concrete floor. You nudged my hand, not with a slobbery exuberance, but with a gentle pressure that spoke volumes. It was an invitation, a silent promise. I looked at your impossibly beautiful brown eyes, framed by that dark fur, and I knew. I knew you were the one. Keva’s absence had been a gaping wound, a silence I hadn't realized could be so deafening. But here, in the cacophony of the shelter, a new song was beginning, a melody composed of your happy sighs and the steady beat of your heart against my palm.

The volunteers, observing the immediate connection, began to chime in with suggestions for adoption, their voices a blur compared to the quiet conversation happening between us. I ignored them, my focus entirely on you. You were not just a dog, not just a potential service animal. You were a spirit, a beacon of hope in my life's uncertain landscape. I saw the protector, the companion, the unwavering friend who would fill the quiet spaces, just as Keva had, but in your own magnificent, Rottweiler way.

As I reached out, your head nudged into my hand, a gentle pressure that spoke volumes. It wasn't the boisterous greeting of a young pup, but the calm assurance of a companion who understood the weight of my silence. The brown around your eyes seemed to deepen, creating a contrast that was both striking and incredibly endearing. You were a mix, they said, likely some kind of shepherd and something else entirely, but to me, you were simply you, a magnificent creature who saw past the grief and reached for connection. The emptiness I felt began to recede, replaced by a tentative spark of hope.

Walking you out of the shelter, leash in hand, felt like stepping back into the light. You walked beside me with an innate grace, your strong frame a comforting presence. The world outside, so recently a muted landscape of sorrow, suddenly held a promise of shared adventures.

The happiness in your eyes wasn't just for me; it was a reflection of the joy you were ready to bring