A little girl throws open the doors of her bedroom, thrilled to be home from school. She leaps into the wide, sunny space, her broad smile mirroring the glittering sunlight that streams in through the open window. A large dog bounds into her skinny, baby arms, it’s shiny, golden coat shimmering. The girl stumbles in surprise but wraps her arms around the dog in a joyful hug just the same. The fluffy pup flips it’s thick tail in whip-like flicks and yips cheerfully. The girl’s smile slips into an even more vast grin, and her eyes flutter closed in pure bliss. The dog licks it’s wet muzzle, and thumps it’s tail happily as the girl gently kisses the dog on it’s forehead.

This is the scene you might see when I got home from school everyday—that is, if Ruff was real.

As an eight-year-old, I had requested a puppy for my birthday. I wished, hoped, dreamed for that puppy day and night. I awoke on my ninth birthday, eyes gleaming with glee. I tore downstairs to the kitchen where my parents waited, a fresh plate delicious of chocolate-chip waffles in front of them. I remember how the table was set—the plate heaped high with piping hot waffles, the steam swirled off in curly wisps. The plate was very grown-up looking, clean white ceramic printed with spring flowers along the rims. Perched atop the polished wood, there was a soft, rosy-pink, crystal glass full of rich, thick, creamy milk. A beautiful purple vase full of pink and white roses decorated the surface of our lazy Susan. As I scarfed down the tasty waffles and gulped the milk greedily, I spied my mom carrying a stack of wrapped gifts. Eyeing the pile of colorful boxes, I polished off the rest of the meal and raced to the couch.

The largest box, wrapped with a sparkly pink bow, caught my eye as soon as I sat on the couch. I tore the wrapping off every gift, appreciating everything, when I finally moved to the big one. Peeling off the paper, I got a glimpse of what treasure lay inside.

An extremely adorable puppy stuffed animal!

I yanked it out of the box, and hugged it immediately, screaming out my joy. I loved every detail of that toy, examining her beautiful, chocolate eyes, her shiny, golden coat, and her cute, fuzzy muzzle. Then my hand slipped inside a gap. I gasped, surprised when I wiggled my hand around and discovered her to be a puppet. I loved her even more.

I named her Ruff.

I couldn’t live without Ruff. She was tucked under my covers beside me every night. Once when I couldn’t find her, and it was bedtime, I started to cry. Fat tears rolled down my cheeks—I couldn’t stop. Then Mom found her hiding behind a curtain, and I finally calmed.

I did everything with her, we danced, we played dress-up, we ate meals together, we read stories, we even sometimes went to school together! Of course most teachers didn’t know that, because I had secretly slipped her into my backpack, careful not to squash her. She would just be happy and safe, comfortable in my backpack.

I swear if she was real, she would be the most loyal, loving, adorable dog on the planet. Ruff was special. I loved her; I knew that if she was to come alive one day, she would love me too.