I didn’t know I was adopting two souls that day.

One of them was small, trembling, tucked into the corner of a cardboard box at the shelter — a bundle of soft fur, cautious eyes, and ears too big for his head. The other was even smaller. A bright green plush dragon with frayed wings and a stitched smile. It lay curled under his chin like a guardian from a bedtime story.

When I reached out, he didn’t move. But when I touched the dragon, he let out the softest sound — not a growl, not a whimper, just a quiet warning. That’s mine, it seemed to say. That’s all I have.

So I took them both.

The first night home, he didn’t explore the house. He didn’t eat much. He just curled up on the living room rug, clutching that dragon like it was his only anchor in the world. I sat nearby and watched, not wanting to intrude. Eventually, he looked up at me, eyes wide and unsure — and then slowly, cautiously, he scooted just a little closer, dragon still in his mouth.

That was the beginning.

He grew fast — as puppies do. His legs outpaced his coordination. His bark deepened, his tail grew strong enough to knock over picture frames. He explored, played, tripped over his own feet, and slowly, room by room, made this house his home. But no matter how much he changed, the dragon was always there. Tucked into his bed. Dragged from room to room. Clutched between his teeth during thunderstorms or when fireworks lit up the night.

As the years passed, the dragon began to show its age. Its green faded to a tired olive. One wing fell off during a particularly enthusiastic tug-of-war. The seams stretched thin. I once thought about replacing it with something newer, brighter — but I stopped myself.

Because the dragon wasn’t just a toy.
It was history.
It was comfort.
It was the last piece of a scared little pup who had once clung to it like it was the only thing in the world that hadn’t let him down.

Now, he’s a gentle giant. Calm. Loyal. The kind of dog who greets strangers with a soft nudge and stays by your side when the world feels too heavy. His face is flecked with grey. His movements slower, more thoughtful. But some nights, I still find him asleep with that dragon tucked between his paws. And I wonder if he dreams of that box. Of the fear he once knew. Of how far he’s come.

I sit beside him sometimes, just watching. I look at the dragon — worn and patched and a little lopsided — and I feel my heart swell with something I can’t quite name.

Because some friendships…
They don’t fade.
They grow softer, maybe. Quieter. But they never disappear.
They grow up with us.
They stay through every chapter.
And sometimes, they wear stuffing and wings.