Flint, my fire-hearted shadow, my loyal storm.
You didn’t come when called—
you came when it mattered.
You chose me, once and for all,
and that was your commandment.

You growled at anyone new,
refused treats from strangers,
and slept with your back against the door
like a soldier on watch.

Now, you are a dog with rainbow steel,
head high, stride proud,
crossing the rainbow bridge not as a pet—
but as a guardian returning home.

The pet rainbow bridge holds steady beneath your paws,
built from the loyalty you gave so freely,
even when no one else understood you.

This dog loss doesn’t feel gentle.
It’s sharp, edged,
like your bark when someone got too close.

In memory of my dog,
I leave your collar in the hallway,
where your scent still lingers like a dare.
I still hear your sighs in the night.
Still feel the weight of your gaze
asking only one thing:
“Are you okay?”

And when I finally cross that same bridge,
I know you’ll be there—
not running,
just waiting,
like you always did,
for no one but me.