The Collar That Loved Back

Something Sacred, Kept Quiet

Someone asked me once if I’d kept anything from that time.

I almost said no.
But then I thought of the drawer in the kitchen. The one that sticks a little when it’s cold.

“There’s a collar in the drawer,” I told them. “That’s all.”

I didn’t mean it lightly.

It’s worn now, the red faded, the tag dulled from years of jangling.
But it’s still the only thing that feels like both of them — the dog who followed, and the man he chose.

The Dog Who Chose My Dad

We got him from Dogs Trust, just outside town, when I was eight.
I’d begged for months — printed out rehoming profiles, stuck them on the fridge, and left a food bowl near the back door like a beacon.
But once he arrived, it was clear who he chose.

My father, always quiet and practical, turned into someone else when they were together.
He whistled more. Sat on the floor more. Talked to the dog in a voice we never heard him use with people, soft, silly, utterly unguarded.
They were inseparable. Morning walks before the sun. Bacon sharing at breakfast. Matching snores during Sunday naps.

I remember thinking, even then, that love makes a person a little ridiculous.

The Day I Thought of Him

They call it Dog Dad Day. One of those made-up internet holidays, maybe.
But when I heard it, I thought only of him. Of the way that collar held more than a name. It held love, and a quiet kind of legacy.

He never said the words, but I saw it in every glove pocket where a biscuit waited, every holiday photo where the dog sat prouder than the children, every time he took the blame for muddy paw prints on the freshly mopped floor.

He never asked to be called a dog dad.
He just became one.

The Collar That Still Speaks

After both were gone, the dog first, then my father some years later, I found the collar in a box marked “Garage – Misc.”
I couldn’t bring myself to toss it. Somehow, it felt like the last thread between them. Like their story, stitched into worn leather and a rusty clip.

So I kept it.

Not on display. Not on a shrine.
Just… in a drawer.
Close. Known.

Skip the Freezer, She Said

The drawer it lives in now sits right beside the freezer.

It made me laugh a little, unexpectedly, when I reached for some peas and felt the edge of the drawer catch.

Mum used to say, “Skip the freezer,” whenever I froze the dog’s food.
“Just give it fresh. He’s not a leftover.”

I hadn’t thought about that in years, that quiet protest she made, even though she was the practical one. The one who said she didn’t like dogs.
But still, she always left a little bit of roast aside, just in case “he’s looking peckish.”

What I Still Carry

I opened the drawer that day, not searching for the collar in the drawer, but it found me anyway.

It still smells faintly of the shed, that warm blend of earth and motor oil and foxglove. It brought back a hundred images, my father in his green coat, the dog trotting ahead, leash loose, as if guiding him home.

I miss them both.
But differently.

I miss my dog like you miss the sun on your face.
I miss my father like you miss the one who showed you how to feel it.

A Quiet Kind of Thank You

Some people keep photos. I kept the collar in the drawer. That’s what held the story.

Maybe Dog Dad Day is silly.
But then again, maybe it isn’t.

Maybe it’s just a way of saying thank you, for the kind of love that doesn’t make speeches, but still wakes up early, packs biscuits in pockets, and walks with you long after it’s gone.

The collar in the drawer stays where it is. It doesn’t need to be worn to hold what mattered.

That’s enough.