When the front door opened, I knew something was different.

I’m Leo. Four-year-old Labrador. Ball enthusiast. Squirrel chaser. Certified Good Boy. And up until about two hours ago, the center of this home’s universe.

I was waiting by the window when they pulled into the driveway. I saw the car seat through the glass and smelled something new before the door even opened. The scent hit me like a soft breeze—milk and blankets and… something delicate. Something new. My tail wagged out of habit, but my ears perked forward.

They stepped in. Mom looked tired but glowing, like she’d just run a marathon in a thunderstorm and was still smiling. Dad had a weird way of holding this tiny bundle, like it was made of eggshells and hope.

The bundle made a squeaky noise.

I froze.

What was that?

I sniffed the air again. My paws clicked excitedly on the hardwood as I tried to get closer. Mom caught me mid-bounce with a firm, “Gentle, Leo.” She knelt, her free hand ruffling my ears. “This is your baby sister.”

Sister? I didn’t ask for a sister. I asked for more peanut butter bones and maybe a second walk in the afternoons. I sat, obediently, though my whole body buzzed with questions.

She crouched so I could see the tiny face. The blanket shifted, and there it was—pale skin, a nose the size of my kibble, and those hands. So small. She blinked once, wrinkled her forehead, and cried like she’d lost her favorite toy—though I wasn’t sure she even had toys yet.

I barked. Just once. You know, as a public service announcement. But Dad snapped his fingers and whispered, “Shh, buddy.”

So, I whined instead. Because someone had to say something.

The days blurred together after that. The air always smelled faintly of diapers, lotion, and something sour I couldn't quite name. I still don’t know what a “blowout” is, but I’ve learned to stay far away when it happens.

My routine changed. Our routine changed.

Morning cuddles on the big bed? Postponed. Walks? Delayed. Mealtimes? Unreliable. My toys were moved from the living room floor to a basket in the laundry room. The baby’s toys, I learned the hard way, were not for chewing. (Not even the crinkly giraffe.)

Sometimes, when she cried late at night, I’d pace outside their door. I didn’t know what she needed, but I wanted to fix it. I’m not the best at lullabies, but I tried my low huff-whine combo, which usually works on squirrels.

It didn’t work on her.

Some days, I felt invisible. No one tossed my ball for hours. No one chased me down the hallway. And when I brought Mom my favorite slipper (the one with her scent and a little hole I added myself), she didn’t even laugh. She just said, “Not now, Leo.”

I curled up in the corner and tried not to take it personally.

But it was personal.

I didn’t know if they loved me less, or if love was something that could stretch big enough to hold both me and her.

And then, something happened.

It was nap time. She was lying on that soft floor blanket with the rainbows and stars on it. I was lying next to her, guarding the perimeter like the professional I am. Her tiny hands waved in the air like she was trying to fly.

Then one landed on me.

Right on my ear.

It wasn’t a grab or a tug—just a soft little pat. Like a whisper of a thank you I didn’t know I’d needed.

I didn’t move. I didn’t lick. I just stayed still, heart thumping, tail sweeping slow against the carpet. Her eyes met mine—blue and wide and blinking like she was still figuring out what the world was.

And in that moment, I knew.

She was mine, too.

After that, things started to shift. Just a little. Dad started taking me on short walks again. Sometimes, if the baby was calm, Mom would hold her in one arm and scratch behind my ears with the other. She’d say things like, “Leo, you’re doing such a good job,” and I’d feel something warm in my chest. Like pride. Like love.

Sometimes, when they’re all asleep, I lie at the foot of her crib. I listen to her little breaths, the tiny coos she makes in her sleep. I guard her dreams. It’s a big job. Bigger than chasing squirrels.

But I’m up for it.

Because I was the first baby in this house. The first to be held, the first to be loved.

And now, I get to be her first friend. Her first protector. The one who teaches her how to sneak snacks, how to nap in sunbeams, how to love with your whole heart.

Because I’m Leo.

And this baby?

She’s my pack now.

Chapter #1: Still Her Leo

Time works differently when you’re a dog.

One moment she was a blinking bundle wrapped in blankets, the next she was moving.

I remember the first time she crawled toward me. I was lounging on the rug, enjoying a peaceful moment, when suddenly— thump-scrape, thump-scrape. I lifted my head, ears perked. There she was. No longer a silent, squirmy burrito. Now a mobile, squealing tornado with sticky fingers and questionable balance.

I stayed still. It was a calculated risk.

She made it all the way to me and planted both hands in my fur. She tugged. I winced. She squealed. It was love at first yank.

Mom was watching. “Gentle hands, Ellie,” she said, rushing over. “Leo is soft, not a horse.”

But it was too late. Ellie had decided I was hers. And that meant:

Sharing her snacks with me (on purpose and not).

Trying to ride me (once—*never again*).

Using me as a pillow, a mountain, and sometimes a napkin.

And you know what?

I didn’t mind.

Sure, there were days when she smeared applesauce on my tail. Days when she shrieked in that high-pitched tone that made even the goldfish flinch. And don’t get me started on bath time—that kid loves splashing more than ducks do, and *I* hate getting wet.

But in between the chaos were moments.

Moments where she’d toddle over and wrap her arms around my neck, humming a song only she understood. Moments where she’d fall asleep on my back while we watched cartoons together, her little fingers tangled in my collar.

I became her shadow.

When she learned to walk, I walked beside her.

When she learned to fall, I was the cushion she landed on.

When she cried, I brought her toys. Sometimes mine. Sometimes hers.

(She never noticed the difference.)

One day, she was sick. Her little nose ran, her cheeks flushed, and she didn’t even want to throw crackers at me. She just curled up on the couch, whimpering. Mom wrapped her in a blanket. Dad brought juice.

And I?

I climbed onto the couch—yes, the couch I'm technically not allowed on—and laid my head beside her. She reached for my paw with the smallest hand.

She held it.

She fell asleep.

And Mom? She didn’t say a word. She just kissed my head and whispered, “Good boy.”

That night, when everyone else had gone to sleep, I stayed by her crib again. Like old times. I don’t think she knew I was there, but it didn’t matter.

She’s my girl.

And she’s growing.

She talks now. Some words I know—“Leo,” “treat,” “no-no.” Some are mysteries. But her laugh? That’s universal. That sound, wild and free, as she runs in circles while I chase behind her—it’s better than fetch. Better than tennis balls. Better than bacon.

Well. Almost.

Lately, she’s started “reading” to me. She holds up books and babbles the story in her own language. Sometimes she gives the characters voices. Sometimes she gets distracted and chews on the corners. Either way, I listen. Every word.

Because it doesn’t matter if she’s crawling, walking, talking, or spilling juice into my water bowl (again).

She’s mine.

And I’m hers.

Forever.

Absolutely. Here's the full story arc—Leo and Ellie’s journey, from the first uncertain days to the tender reflections of a teenager. It’s warm, nostalgic, a little bittersweet—and full of love.

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**Title: "Always Her Leo"**

*From the day she came home, to the day she finally understood.*

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**Chapter 1: New Scent, New Sound, Same Love**

(Leo, Puppy’s POV)

The day she came home, the world shifted.

I was used to being the star of the show—the tail-wagging, ball-chasing, snack-stealing heart of the house. But then the door opened, and in came a bundle wrapped in pastels and mystery.

She didn’t bark. She didn’t play. She cried. Loudly. Frequently.

At first, I kept my distance. Not out of fear—I'm not scared, I'm brave—but out of confusion. She was tiny. Strange. Smelled like milk and clouds and change.

But one day, she reached for my ear.

And everything changed again.

---

Chapter#2: Toddlers, Treats, and Tugging Ears

She crawled. Then walked. Then ran—usually in the opposite direction of wherever she was supposed to be going.

My job got bigger. I was a seat, a pillow, a confidante, and a very patient taste tester. (Cheerios? Excellent. Broccoli? Still questionable.)

She called me "Weo" at first. I answered anyway.

Sometimes she fell asleep in my fur. Sometimes she cried and buried her face in my side. I stayed. Every time.

She was growing.

And somehow, so was I.

---

Chapter #3: Big Kid, Bigger Heart

She started school. Wore a backpack bigger than her whole body. I watched through the window as she waved goodbye every morning, the bus swallowing her up like a yellow beast.

Every afternoon, I waited by the door. As soon as it opened, she'd drop everything and wrap her arms around my neck like the world hadn't made sense until she saw me again.

She told me stories—of spelling tests and playground drama, of who got in trouble and who shared their fruit snacks.

And I listened.

I always listened.

Even when her voice started changing. When she didn't play as much. When she stopped using me as a pillow and started closing the door to her room.

---

Chapter 4: Slower Steps, Softer Days

I’m not as fast anymore.

My legs ache in the morning, and stairs are… negotiable. I don’t chase balls like I used to, but Ellie doesn’t mind. She lays beside me on the rug now, scrolling through her phone, her hand absently resting on my back. Sometimes she doesn’t talk. Sometimes she just breathes. And I breathe with her.

She’s tall now. Taller than Mom. Her laugh is lower, her eyes quieter.

She still calls me Leo, but now it's "Old Man Leo." I don't mind.

She lets me sleep on her bed again. I think she knows I won’t always be here.

But I am now.

I always am.

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Chapter #5: The Reflection

Ellie, Age 15

I don’t remember the exact moment I met him.

I’ve seen pictures—me swaddled like a burrito, eyes barely open, reaching for this big yellow dog with worried eyes and floppy ears. My mom always tells the story: how gentle he was, how confused, how he never once growled or backed away. How he whined the first time I cried, like he was already worried about me.

But I wish I could remember it. I wish I could tell him what that moment means to me now.

Leo’s fur is gray around the eyes. He sleeps more, hears less, but he still waits for me at the door. Still nudges my hand when I cry. Still curls up beside me during the worst storms—outside or inside.

I’m old enough now to understand what he did for me.

He was the constant when nothing else made sense. The patient listener when I was too scared to tell anyone else. The warmth in the dark, the heartbeat that reminded me I wasn’t alone.

People always say you don't remember your first few years.

But I do.

Not with words.

With him.

I remember how safe I felt curled up beside Leo.

How it smelled like fur and home.

How I didn’t have to be anything—just me.

Just Ellie.

And that was always enough for him.

One day—maybe not now, maybe not soon—he’ll be gone.

And it will break me.

But I will carry him forever. In my laughter, in my loyalty, in the quiet ways I try to love others like he loved me.

Because Leo wasn’t just our dog.

He was my first best friend.

And he will always, always be my first home.

Of course. Here is the epilogue from **adult Ellie’s** perspective—tender, nostalgic, and reflective. A full-circle moment that honors Leo’s place in her life and the kind of love that leaves pawprints on the soul.

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Epilogue: Pawprints on the Heart

Ellie – Age 28

I still dream about his paws.

Soft. Golden. The way they used to pat the floor when he walked into the room. He was heavy-footed but quiet in presence—never demanding, always near.

Leo.

I haven’t said that name out loud in years. Not because I forgot—how could I? But because sometimes, speaking it out loud feels like breaking something open again.

He died when I was seventeen.

Old, slow, and tired—but still trying to stand when I walked through the front door after school. Still wagging his tail, even when it barely moved. Still watching me like I was his whole world.

I held him when he passed. My head against his, whispering things I should’ve said sooner. Thank you. I love you. You made me who I am.

There’s a photo of us in my apartment now. Just a little framed print by the bookshelf—me as a toddler, my chubby hand in his fur, both of us looking at the camera like we had no idea the story we’d share.

Sometimes people ask about him. “Who’s this?” they’ll say, smiling at the photo.

I tell them: That’s Leo. He was my dog. My best friend. My shadow. My anchor.

And then I usually stop.

Because how do you explain the kind of love that teaches you how to be?

How do you explain that he was the one who sat with me when my parents fought quietly in the kitchen?

That he was the first one to make me feel seen when I was awkward and too tall and unsure?

That he listened when I read my first book out loud, when I practiced speeches, when I cried over rejections, and when I celebrated wins?

Leo taught me that love doesn’t need to be loud. That sometimes, the best kind of comfort is just being there—no answers, no solutions, just presence.

Now, I find myself becoming a little more like him.

When a friend is overwhelmed, I sit with them. Quietly.

When I fall in love, I do it loyally, gently.

And when I walk into a room, I try to bring the same calm energy Leo always had.

He was a dog, yes.

But he was also my first teacher. My steady place in a world that never stopped spinning.

And if I ever have a child, and they bring home a puppy—eyes big, paws too big for their body—I will kneel beside them and whisper, “This is going to be one of the greatest loves of your life. Even if you don’t remember the beginning… your heart will.”

Because some goodbyes aren’t ends.

They’re beginnings in disguise.

And Leo?

Leo never really left.

He’s in the way I love.

He’s in the way I listen.

He’s in the way I still pause at the door some days, expecting him to be there—tail thumping, eyes bright.

I smile when I catch myself doing it.

Because even now…

I’m still his girl.

And he’s still my Leo.