Banjo, my spark, my four-legged extrovert.
You didn’t walk—you paraded.
Every sidewalk was your red carpet,
every stranger a future friend.

You made people smile without trying—
tilted head, wagging tail,
like you were asking,
“Isn’t this world wonderful?”

Now, you’re a dog with rainbow spotlight,
center stage on the pet rainbow bridge,
wearing a bandana made of light.

Crossing the rainbow bridge,
you trotted, tail high,
as the heavens clapped just for you.

This dog loss feels too quiet—
like the park forgot how to laugh.
I miss how you made joy look easy,
how you made me feel known,
even in a crowd.

In memory of my dog,
I smile at strangers more,
talk to shy dogs at the fence,
and wear my grief like you wore your bandanas—
bold, proud, full of life.

Banjo, when I cross that bridge,
I hope you’re the first to spot me,
bounding through fields of applause,
ready to walk me home
like only you could.