After my dog Percy died earlier this year, the house turned quiet in a way that settled deep. Food bowls stayed lined against the wall, still clean, the couch cushion he claimed kept its dip for months and silence filled every corner once full of sound and movement. Days carried on, but routine fell apart. The leash hung untouched by the door and evenings no longer ended with a soft thud on the bed and the weight of a loyal body curling close. Losing him didn’t just mean losing a dog. It meant losing the rhythm of a shared life. People often say there comes a moment when someone simply knows it’s time for another pet. Yet, how could that moment ever be clear? What does readiness mean after something so deeply loved disappears? Lately, thoughts drift toward the shelter I have always adopted from, Unleashed. Dogs there wait behind gates with hopeful eyes watching every person who passes. Somewhere among them might be an old soul needing a quiet home, a warm bed and gentle words…