Scout

Scout came to us at ten weeks old with paws too big for his body and a tail that knocked over everything on the coffee table, and for fourteen years he never once stopped being glad to see us.

He had a post at the front window, every morning at six, chin on the sill, watching the street wake up. The mail carrier called him "the supervisor." When it rained he pressed his nose to the glass and left little fog circles we never had the heart to wipe away.

He loved the lake best. Every September we took him up for one last swim before the cold, and he would stand on the shore at sunset, completely still, watching the water like it was telling him something. The last photo we have of him is from that shore.

He knew the sound of the treat jar from two rooms away. He slept through thunderstorms but woke when the refrigerator opened. He held every sock he ever stole gently, like it mattered, and traded it back for nothing more than a "good boy."

Fourteen years was not enough. It never would have been. But every single one of them was good, and he knew he was loved, and on his last evening we lit a candle by the window and told him so, one more time, with his chin in my hand.

Rest easy, supervisor. The window is yours forever.