I was seven when my dad brought home a puppy and said, “Here’s a friend for you.”
That night, Doudou trembled in a cardboard box. I lay beside him and read him a bedtime story in a whisper. He was so small, too afraid to go down the stairs, so I led him—step by step, hand in paw. But he ran fast. Every afternoon, he’d be the first one waiting at the school gate for me.
One winter, I was teased at school for scoring low on a test. I sat at the doorstep crying. He walked over and gently pressed his head into my arms, as if he understood. I hugged him, tears soaking his fur. He didn’t move. He just licked my hand, softly.
In middle school, I began to find him noisy. Especially when I was doing homework—he’d nap at my feet, snoring. But later I realized… his snoring had been the background music of my childhood. Once, I had a high fever while home alone. He stayed up the entire night, lying by my bed. Every time I turned, he stood up nervously to check on me. When I woke up, he was still there—tired, but watching over me.
Later, I left to study abroad. On the day I left, he refused to eat. I crouched down and talked to him. He lowered his head and buried his face in my hands. I stuck a picture of him as a puppy on my suitcase, and on the back I wrote: “Wait for me.”
Five years later, I came home.
He couldn’t hear well anymore. Mom said he often got confused, sometimes even lost in our own house. But that day, he smelled me. He stood up slowly and walked—step by step—toward me.
Then, he wagged his tail… and sat at my feet, just like before.
I hugged him, laughing and crying.He rested his face on my shoulder, trembling slightly, but his eyes… still bright. I always thought I was growing up alone. But the truth is—we grew up together.
Now, I walk Doudou every day. Slowly, gently. Just like he once waited for me to learn to walk. And at night, I read to him. Just like I did on the day we met.
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