Carter came home the day he fit in a shoebox.

He was clumsy,
a little scared,
but he followed everyone around
as if he was afraid of being left behind.

Every morning, he was the first one awake.
The sound of the kitchen was enough—
his tail was already tapping the floor.

In the afternoons,
sunlight spilled across the living room,
and Carter would curl up right in the warmest spot.
When he slept,
the house felt calm.

He saw our family at its loudest.
Holidays, laughter, people coming and going—
Carter weaving through it all like he belonged there.
Because he did.

He also saw the quiet nights.
The lights off.
Someone sitting on the couch, tired and silent.
Carter would walk over,
rest his head on a knee,
and stay.

As he got older,
his steps slowed.
He no longer rushed to the door,
but he still watched us leave,
his tail gently moving.

Later, he preferred the corners of the room.
His hearing faded,
but he always knew who was near.
He remembered us by scent, by love.

The day he left was very quiet.
He lay there,
as if he were only sleeping.

Now the house feels different.
No paws on the floor.
No shadow waiting by the door.

But Carter never really left.

He’s in the warm patch of sunlight.
In the way we still look down when we walk in.
In every moment we miss him.

That’s why I recreate him with wool,
slowly, carefully.
Not to replace a life,
but to hold on to a love
that never fades.

Because some dogs don’t just live with us—
they become part of who we are.

Luna arrived quietly.

No noise,
no hurry—
just a small cat choosing our home.

She claimed the windowsill,
the softest blanket,
and every afternoon of sunlight.

At night, she followed us room to room,
pretending not to care,
yet never too far away.

Years passed.
Her steps softened.
Her naps grew longer.

The day she left,
the house felt wider,
and far too quiet.

Now she lives in the places she loved most—
the window, the light, the silence.

That’s why I shape her in wool.
Not to bring her back,
but to keep her close.

Some cats don’t ask for much.
They just stay—
and leave a space that never fills.

Oliver never rushed anything.

He watched first.
Listened.
Then quietly settled in.

Every morning,
he waited by the door—not for attention,
just to be there when the day began.

He grew older without making a fuss.
One day, he simply slept a little longer.

The house remembers him
in the stillness,
and in the way we learned
that love doesn’t need noise.

Milo chose us on his own.

A soft step.
A curious look.
Then the couch was his forever.

He followed the sun through the rooms,
claiming light as if it belonged to him.

When he left,
nothing moved—
except the sunlight,
still waiting where he once slept.

So I recreate him in wool.
A small shape of a very big presence.

Because some companions
become home themselves.