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Lane was a tiny Shetland Sheepdog with a fluffy coat, prancing paws, and a bark that sounded more like a squeaky toy than a ferocious beast. But don’t tell him that — because Lane was absolutely convinced he was the fiercest creature ever to guard a front yard.
He came into Kelly’s life right after she graduated from college, when the world felt huge and uncertain. From the moment she scooped him up, Lane decided that his job — his mission — was to stay close to her heart, watch every corner, and alert her to any and all dangers, real or imagined.
And oh, did he watch.
He barked at bikes — those wheeled monsters rolling suspiciously down the street.
He barked at children, who were far too unpredictable and loud for his comfort.
He barked at mail trucks, leaf blowers, plastic bags, and his own reflection sometimes.
Not a deep “big dog” bark — but a rapid-fire yap-yap-yap like a squeaky horn trying very hard to sound intimidating.
Lane thought he was ten feet tall.
Until another dog got too close.
Then he would instantly leap behind Kelly’s legs, peeking out only far enough to glare and pretend he meant to do that.
One of Lane’s favorite traditions was the Corner Run. Every day on his walk, when he and Kelly reached the last corner before their house, he would stop, wiggle his fluffy backside, and burst into a full-speed sprint, pulling Kelly behind him while both of them laughed breathlessly. It was their secret game.
One day, Kelly forgot to warn her mom about the routine.
So when they reached the corner, Lane paused, gave his little tail wiggle — and shot off like lightning.
Kelly’s mom nearly dropped the leash and had absolutely no idea what had possessed him.
Lane, of course, thought the chaos was delightful.
For all his quirks — his anxious pacing, his barky warnings, his fear of kids and bicycles and big dogs — Lane had a heart made of pure gold. He always knew when Kelly was sad and would curl gently beside her, resting his head on her lap with a quiet sigh, as if to say, I’m here. Whatever it is, we’ll do it together.
He wasn’t perfect.
He was nervous and yappy and dramatic and sweet and loyal all at once.
But he was perfect to her.
And even though he isn’t here anymore, his joyful sprint still echoes at that corner, and his tiny bark still lives in the warm spaces of memory — the kind that never fade.
Because some friends don’t leave pawprints in the yard.
They leave them on your heart. 🐾💛
