There’s a certain quiet that settles into a home when something small finally feels safe enough to fall asleep.
Dyson has only just arrived, and already he’s learning the soft geography of our days: the dip of the couch cushion, the familiar pull of a blanket, the way afternoon light fades into the same corners every evening. In the photo he’s sprawled out in that fearless, upside-down way puppies do—like he’s been here forever, like the world has always been this gentle.
We keep calling him our “new baby,” half joking, half telling the truth. Because the house changes when a puppy comes in. It’s not cluttered or chaotic so much as newly alive. You start listening differently—less for the creak of the floorboards and more for the tiny sounds: paws padding down the hall, a collar tag ticking, a sigh as he finally settles.
He’s still figuring us out, and we’re still figuring him out. But there’s something steady already taking root. Not a big, dramatic shift—more like a quiet brightness, the kind that makes ordinary moments feel a little wider.
Welcome home, Dyson.
