The sound of tiny paws tapping on the wooden porch woke us up—soft, eager, like someone couldn’t wait to start the day. Lila rolled over, laughing, and I pulled back the curtain to see Shell, our three-month-old rescue puppy, sitting by the door, her tail wagging so hard her whole body shook. “Looks like someone’s ready for our walk,” Lila said, sitting up and reaching for her purple cap. I grinned, slipping on my shoes. “I love going out with my cute dog,” I said. “Even when she wakes us up at 6 a.m.”
We’d found Shell a month ago, huddled under the driftwood at our beach cove, shivering and hungry. Lila had knelt down, her curly hair falling over her face, and held out a piece of banana muffin—“She’s probably never had anything sweet,” she’d said—and the puppy had nuzzled her hand, instantly stealing our hearts. We named her Shell, after the tiny seashell she’d carried in her mouth when we found her, and she’d since become the third member of our little family: sleeping at the foot of our bed, begging for crumbs at the kitchen table, and now, leading the way on our morning beach walks.
Lila clipped Shell’s purple leash (matching her cap, of course) to her collar, and we stepped outside, the morning air cool and salty. Shell took off, pulling Lila toward the sand, her paws kicking up little clouds of gold. “Slow down, girl!” Lila laughed, jogging to keep up. I walked behind them, sketchbook in hand, capturing the moment: Lila’s hair flying, Shell’s tail high, the sunrise painting the sky pink behind them. When Shell stopped to sniff a seashell, Lila knelt down, picking it up and tucking it into her pocket. “For the memory box,” she said, winking at me. I nodded, my chest warm—even with a new puppy, some traditions never changed.
By mid-morning, we’d reached our cove, and Lila spread out the six-pack towel while I pulled out a container of puppy-safe banana treats (I’d baked them the night before, using mashed banana and oats). Shell curled up in Lila’s lap, munching on a treat, while Lila stroked her soft fur. “Remember when we thought we’d never have a pet?” Lila said, smiling down at Shell. I nodded—we’d talked about it once, back when we lived in the gym apartment, but the timing never felt right. Now, with Shell, it felt like we’d been missing her all along. “She’s perfect,” I said, sitting beside them and scratching Shell’s ears. She wagged her tail, resting her head on my hand. “I love going out with my cute dog,” Lila said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “But I love going out with you two even more.”
That afternoon, Mrs. Kosta and Sofia stopped by, bringing a bag of dog toys—“Sofia picked out the shell-shaped one,” Mrs. Kosta said, grinning. Sofia knelt down, holding out a soft toy, and Shell bounded over, tail wagging. They played fetch on the beach, Sofia laughing as Shell ran circles around her, while Lila and I sat on the porch, drinking lemonade. “Look at them,” Lila said, nodding toward the beach. “Shell’s already made a friend.” I smiled, watching Shell drop the toy at Sofia’s feet, waiting for her to throw it again. “Just like her mom,” I said, squeezing Lila’s hand. She blushed, but her smile was bright—happy, content, exactly the way I loved to see her.
As the sun set, we walked back to the house, Shell trotting beside us, tired but happy. Lila took off her purple cap, letting her curly hair fall, and I carried Shell in my arms—she’d fallen asleep, her head resting on my shoulder. “Tonight, we’ll add her shell toy to the memory box,” Lila said, unlocking the door. I nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like lavender and banana muffins (I’d put a batch in the oven before we left, and Shell woke up, sniffing the air. “Hungry again, huh?” Lila laughed, putting her down. She ran to the kitchen, waiting by her food bowl.
That night, we sat on the porch swing, Shell curled up in Lila’s lap, and watched the stars come out. I’d added the shell from our morning walk and Shell’s toy to the memory box, and Lila held it in her free hand, flipping through the contents—seashells, the pressed rose, the red mask’s lavender sprig, now a tiny dog toy. “Our family’s growing,” she said, soft and quiet. I leaned over, kissing her cheek. “It is,” I said. “And I love every part of it—you, Shell, the beach, even the early mornings.” She smiled, leaning into me. “I love going out with my cute dog,” she said. “But mostly, I love going out with you. Always.”
Love isn’t just about two people—it’s about the little ones who come into your life, the ones who make your mornings brighter and your nights cozier. It’s about Shell, with her tiny paws and her love for banana treats. It’s about Lila, with her curly hair and her purple cap, her kind heart and her ability to turn a stray puppy into a family member. It’s about walking on the beach at sunrise, playing fetch with a cute dog, and knowing that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
And as I held Lila’s hand, watching Shell sleep in her lap, I knew—I’d spend the rest of my life loving our little family: the woman I married, the cute dog we rescued, and all the moments we get to share. Exactly how we wanted it.
