I never noticed it until after Abby was gone. That fall morning, sunlight spilled across the hardwood floor, pooling at the spot by the front door where she always waited. The glass in the storm door caught the light, turning it into a warm halo around her golden fur. Abby lay there with her chin lifted toward the world outside, one paw resting gently against the doorframe, as if she was holding the day in place just for me.
Around her were her treasures, worn and loved in equal measure. The stuffed rabbit, ears floppy from years of being carried everywhere, lay tucked against her side. Another rested just behind her, and a little red ball caught the light like a drop of sunset on the floor.
She passed on October 28, 2024, but that image of her, watching, waiting, guarding the threshold between home and the wide, bright world, has never left me. It was sometime after her passing that I whispered dog aloud, then turned it backwards in my mind.
God. It stopped me.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Abby had been God’s gentle messenger, sent to show me love in its purest form. She never judged, never turned away, never measured my worth. She forgave instantly, loved endlessly, and found joy in the smallest moments, a walk through fallen leaves, the scent of rain on the wind, the sound of my voice saying her name.
Even now, in the quiet, I can almost hear the soft click of her nails on the floor, or feel the brush of her fur against my leg. And I know, God spelled backwards is dog. When the dog is gone, the God in their love remains.
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