I am Zoë.
And I want to tell you about a day
that arrived very quietly.
It was one of those days.

That was the day Amy left.
Very gently, very peacefully,
almost like a final breath taken in sleep.
Amy, the little sister of Bluna.
They came to us on the same day,
and now they have moved on together again.

Amy was special.
All of us in the pack knew it.
It didn’t need explaining.
You could feel it.
She was the soul dog.
Quiet, delicate, full of feeling.

When it was time to eat, she danced—just because.
And whenever she saw the leash, her whole being lit up with joy.
We often paused to watch her, because even we dogs could sense it: this was something beautiful.
The air itself seemed to smile around her.

Amy did not hear the world the way we do.
But she saw it.
She looked at Bluna and knew where to go.
Bluna was her compass. And she looked at our human
and understood the language of hands—every movement, every sign.
That was Amy.
She listened with her heart.
And we, the pack, watched over her,
without words, as a matter of course.

When Bluna left, something grew quiet inside Amy.
We all noticed it. She had to learn again, to look again, to feel again.
Sometimes she would stop where she once would have gone on without hesitation.

Then she would seek closeness. Often she leaned against Amara,
our youngest.
Very gently, very trustingly, as if to say: Stay with me for a moment.
And Amara stayed. That is how we do things here.

We all felt it.
The pack moved closer together.
No one was pushed. No one was left out. No one walks alone.

Now Amy is with Bluna again.
I can see them before me, walking side by side, free, light, without pain. And we know: they are not gone.
They have only gone ahead.

And we who remain
carry their story forward.
As a pack.
Together.