That’s my job—stick with him, no matter where he goes.

It’s early, too early, but the boy is already up. Joel never waits for the sun. He’s 8 years old, all energy and noise, calling my name through the house: “Come on, Chewy!” His voice is steady and sure, like he knows I’ll follow. He’s right. My paws click across the floor, always staying close. That’s my job—stick with him, no matter where he goes.

Outside, the air is warm and golden. Joel kneels down and places his hand on my back. He does it gentle, like he knows I’ve carried weight heavier than a boy’s hand. I look up at him with my serious face—because I’m no silly pup, not really. I’ve seen things. But I let him see my steady gaze, the one that says, You’re my boy now. I’ve got you.

Later, he crouches low, laughing at something I don’t understand. His laughter bursts out in bright little explosions, and I press myself close, steady as a wall. I don’t laugh. That’s not my way. I’m the watchful one. The world can surprise you if you let your guard down, and I don’t intend to.

Then Joel starts talking—arms flapping, voice rising and falling like he’s telling the story of the whole world. I sit in front of him, head tilted, ears sharp. I don’t catch every word, but I don’t need to. His voice is enough. For him, I’ll listen as long as he wants to talk.

By midday, he wraps his arms around my neck and buries his face in my fur. I don’t move. I don’t breathe too hard. I just stand, solid and still, because I know what this means. The boy trusts me. That’s no small thing.

After lunch, he drops to the floor with his toys, cross-legged and deep in play. I stretch out next to him, one paw reaching toward him, just enough to remind him I’m here. He may not notice, but I do. My boy will never be alone, not while I’m beside him.

In the afternoon, we go for a walk. He skips ahead, pointing at butterflies and rocks and clouds. I don’t skip. I stay steady, the leash taut between us. He can chase the light, but I’ll keep him grounded. That’s how it works—we balance each other.

Later, I find Jeremiah’s cat tunnel. I don’t know why it’s there, but I crawl through anyway, my tail swishing with pride. Joel laughs so hard I think he might tip over. I don’t care if it looks silly. If it makes him laugh, it’s worth it.

By evening, we’re both worn out. We sink into the couch together. Joel’s hair is messy, his eyelids heavy. I curl tight into him, nose tucked at his side. The lamp throws warm light over us, but I don’t need light to see what matters. He is safe. He is mine.

I started life on the streets, a stray with no one to call my own. But here, with this boy, I’ve found my place. He gives me home, and I give him loyalty. Fierce, unshakable, forever loyalty. That’s the deal, and it’s one I’ll keep for the rest of my life.