Dogfather

He filled the room just by being in it,
a man too big for small moments,
too alive for anything half-measured.
When he laughed, it was the whole world laughing.
When he loved, it was with the force of a storm
that left everything standing—
only cleaner, only brighter.

He didn’t just live.
He lived. Every. Second.
Not cautious, never cautious,
but sure, as if the ground itself
rose to meet his feet.

They called him the Dogfather,
and it fit.
A presence you leaned on,
trusted —
because how could one person
carry so much life?

When he sat beside you,
you felt something solid in a world
too full of shifting sand.
And when he gave his love,
you knew it would outlast him.

In the end, it did.
He died the way he lived—
loving, loved,
surrounded by the ones
he’d taught to carry the light.

Even in sleep,
he burned like a fire.
And when the flames finally dimmed,
they left a warmth behind
that does not fade.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​