Winters in our part of the world can be harsh - the kind that numb your fingers and coax you under layers of blankets before the sun sets. On such frigid nights, Rani would quietly slip under my quilt like a seasoned bedmate, plant herself beside me, rest her head on my pillow, and let out the gentlest of snores - a rhythmic lullaby that came with its own twist.
Every now and then, that soft snore would be interrupted… by a far more sinister rear-end affair.
A sudden burst of air - warm, rude, and utterly violating - would jolt me out of my sleepy cocoon and send my nostrils flaring. I'd fling the blanket off, offended and gasping, while she'd groan dramatically and look at me with that unmistakable "What did I do?" expression. But I swear - deep within those twinkling eyes, she laughed. She knew exactly what she had done. And she enjoyed every bit of it.
But that was Rani - tender, mischievous, and always full of surprises.
As the months rolled into years, the seasons changed their robes, and so did she - from a scruffy little pup into a magnificent, intelligent, soulful dog who won hearts with a glance and earned loyalty with love. She became the darling of every passerby - friends, neighbors, delivery boys, fellow children - all enchanted by her glowing coat, her playful demeanor, and her undeniable charm.
People often commented on how lucky she was to have found us. But we'd always correct them - gently, proudly, and without hesitation,
"No, we were the lucky ones. She chose us."
And we lived by that belief for the next fourteen years.
She became our angel - not the kind with wings or halos, but one who walked beside us, steady and strong, through every storm life hurled our way. She saw us through the darkest valleys - the passing of loved ones, my mother's fracture, my own illnesses, and the unbearable stress of academic life and looming board exams. There was even a time when we narrowly escaped what could've been a gruesome robbery - or worse.
Through it all, Rani didn't demand attention. She didn't bark for sympathy. She simply remained. Lying quietly by our feet during our silences, skipping meals when she sensed our grief, withholding her usual cheerful antics as if mourning alongside us.
She listened. And that was enough. Stroking her soft coat and whispering my thoughts - unfiltered, unjudged - was the kind of healing no therapist could replicate. With Rani around, even pain seemed softer, more manageable, and the world, however harsh, never seemed unconquerable.