The Warmth Beside Me

Evenings can be the most challenging part of the day for a widow. The busy hours are behind us, and the noise of the world softens; suddenly, the quiet feels too loud. I never realized how heavy a bed could feel when it held me.

But every night, like clockwork, my bulldog Tater climbs up and claims his place. He doesn’t curl at the foot of the bed or sprawl out on the pillows. No—he presses his back firmly against mine, as if to say, “I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

It’s a simple thing, really—just the weight of his body, the warmth of his fur, the rhythm of his breathing. And yet, it melts me. In that moment, I feel held. I feel chosen. I feel loved.

People sometimes underestimate how deep a dog’s love runs. Cat lovers joke about independence, but dogs—dogs don’t leave you guessing. They show up, they protect, they stay. Mine senses my loneliness, and in his own bulldog way, he fills that hollow space with loyalty and warmth.

No, he can’t replace my husband’s embrace. Nothing can. But every night, as I drift to sleep with Tater’s back pressed into mine, I’m reminded that love still lives here. Not the same love I lost—but a love that comforts, heals, and whispers in its own wordless way: “You are not alone.”