People in town noticed, of course. “That’s a whole lot of dog,” the mailman said, crossing to the other side of the street. Kids pointed from car windows. But BBW didn’t care. He walked beside me with the grave dignity of a small elephant, his tail wagging in slow, metronome sweeps.

I called him BBW—short for Big Brown Walrus, because that’s what he resembled when he flopped onto my linoleum floor that first night. But soon the letters took on new meanings: Big Brave Witness. Bearer of Burdens, Weighty.

He left that afternoon, walking slowly down the gravel road until he became a speck, then a memory. I never saw him again.

But sometimes, when the loneliness starts to creep back, I put a heavy book on my lap, or a bag of potatoes at my feet. I feel the pressure, the solid truth of something real pressing against me. And I remember the BBW dog, who taught me that the heaviest burdens are sometimes the ones that save you.

BBW rose from his spot by the hearth. He walked to me, turned three times, and lowered himself onto my feet. All hundred and sixty pounds of him settled across my legs, pinning me to the floor like a paperweight. And in that crushing, suffocating weight, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: safety.