Magnolia

Magnolia was the first dog who was entirely, completely mine. Not my parents' dog, not a family dog — mine. I was twenty-three and newly in an apartment that allowed pets, and I drove to Jefferson Parish Animal Shelter on a Saturday morning with no real plan.

She was in the second row of kennels, sitting very still, watching everything. The other dogs were loud. She wasn't. The volunteer told me she'd been there for four months. She looked at me with these amber eyes that said, very clearly, 'It's about time you showed up.'

Magnolia taught me that a dog will meet you exactly where you are. She didn't need me to have everything together. She just needed me to show up consistently. Feed her. Walk her. Be there. It's a lesson I've had to relearn approximately a thousand times since, in different contexts, about different things.

I had Magnolia for eleven years. She passed on a Tuesday in February, which is the worst month to lose something you love. I planted a rosemary bush in her honor. It's still growing.