When I was 17 years old, my mom brought home a tiny, fuzzy, rambunctious blonde labrador, who we named Karli. She instantly bonded with my little brother, Adam, and was known around the house as "Adam's girl." We'd often ask her "Where's your boy?" and her ears would perk up, her eyes would light up, and she'd run to the front door in anticipation of him returning from whichever sport practice he'd been to that evening.
Karli was never a particularly brave pup. We could find her hiding in the bathtub when our next door neighbors brought in an excavator to help with their landscaping. She would lay on the floor, her eyes to the ceiling, growling at particularly loud thunderstorms. But she could sit, shake, and speak with the best of them (sometimes even without command).
Karli was always ready for a snuggle, she gave the best puppy hugs in the whole world, and even though she was with Adam most of the time, you could always count on her to comfort you on your saddest days.
Our sweet Karli passed away yesterday morning, due to congestive heart failure. She will always, always be missed. Rest in peace, sweet pet.