Cleo, our bulldog, lay in a patch of afternoon sun, her eyes on the front door. “Daddy will be home any minute now,” I assured her. After all these years Cleo probably knew Howard’s schedule better than I did. That man and his dog had a special bond. She never wanted to leave his side. Wherever Howard went, his buddy Cleo was sure to follow.

And the feeling was mutual. Out shopping one day Howard and I came across a stone statue of a bulldog. It looked just like Cleo. “This is going right in our garden,” Howard said. We spent many happy days in that garden: Me weeding, Howard picking apples and pears from the trees or relaxing in his red wooden chair, and Cleo at the window looking out at the statue that celebrated her.

Cleo lifted her head and got to her feet. Her behind wiggled back and forth—her corkscrew tail didn’t wag on its own. A second later I heard Howard’s footsteps at the door. She was as alert to her master’s steps as ever. What an amazing listener, I thought.

“Hey, girl!” Howard said as he came in the door. Standing up he towered over Cleo, so he got down on all fours. Cleo covered his face in kisses. “I missed you while I was at work all day!” said Howard. He stood up and wrapped his arms around me. “You too, hon!” I laughed. That was just the way it was: Cleo was always first to greet him.

That night after dinner Howard sat in his favorite armchair. When he was settled Cleo hurled herself off the floor and into his lap, snuggling into his arms. “How’s that cough?” I asked, watching those two from the doorway.

Howard frowned. “Still can’t shake it,” he said. “I’ll ask my doctor about it at my physical tomorrow.”

“You probably need more rest,” I said. Howard was an industrial arts teacher at the local middle school—one of their most popular teachers. Kids came to him for all sorts of things outside of class. He always made time to give them extra help with their projects or to just listen when they needed to talk. Howard was a good listener, and I often thought that was another thing he and Cleo had in common. But it didn’t leave him much time to take care of himself. “Be sure to tell the doctor how busy you’ve been lately.”

Howard ruffled Cleo’s ears. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m probably just run-down.”

It was hard to imagine my big, strong husband being sick. Howard had always been hardy, and had never smoked—so I was shocked when we got the diagnosis: advanced lung cancer.

Howard tried chemotherapy. His hair got thin. He could no longer work in the garden or be a mentor to his students. Everywhere I went people asked why they hadn’t seen Howard around town. But he was still the same beloved master with Cleo by his side. She was all the more loving when he didn’t feel well. Knowing she gave Howard comfort gave me comfort too. I thanked God every day for our Cleo.

But neither she nor chemotherapy could cure his disease. The cancer was relentless. Howard went into the hospital. He decided to shave off what hair he had left. “You think Cleo will recognize me when I get home?” he asked.

I had no doubt she would have, but Howard never made it home. He died within months of his diagnosis. Hundreds came to his funeral: students, former students, neighbors, people from all over town. We all mourned, but Cleo was inconsolable. “She doesn’t understand where he’s gone,” someone said while she paced in front of his empty armchair. I ruffled her ears the way Howard used to. “I know how you feel, girl,” I said. She only looked up sadly and whimpered. At least I knew Howard was in heaven with the angels.

The next day I sat at the kitchen table leafing through a catalog barely seeing the things on its pages. Until one item caught my eye—a stone statue about the size of our bulldog, only this one was Humpty Dumpty. Why did it look so familiar? Then I realized—it looked just like Howard after he shaved his head. I had to laugh. Howard would probably want to add this to our garden! And then I thought about it for a second. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea—a companion for the bulldog out there.

I ordered the statue right away and put it out in the garden near the other one. There, at least in spirit, Cleo could be by Howard’s side. I knelt in the dirt to plant some zinnias between them. A neighbor passed by and said that seeing the statues together made her smile. I had to admit, I couldn’t look at my garden without feeling peaceful myself. Now if only Cleo could find some peace too. She was getting along in age, and I couldn’t help feeling like she needed her buddy Howard more than ever.

I comforted her the best I could, but Cleo’s energy waned. We sat together many afternoons. Sometimes she lay in a patch of sun by the dining room window that looked onto the garden, but without Howard working in it, it held no interest for Cleo. Her health declined sharply. We called the vet. There was nothing more he could do for her, except put her to sleep. I drove home, which was now more empty than ever. It felt as if Howard had died all over again. She was so connected to him in my memories. A part of Howard had lived on in that old bulldog, and she had never stopped loving him. And now our Cleo was gone too.

God, give me the strength to face this. I went out to the garden. The statue of Humpty Dumpty grinned at me from his peaceful spot on the grass. To my surprise I felt myself grinning back. Beside him, as ever, was the loving, faithful bulldog. Wherever Howard went, Cleo was sure to follow. Even now she was at his side, but she was in a different garden. A better garden. A garden where I would find them both again one day.