There’s a certain kind of quiet strength that never leaves a room — even long after the paws have. Da Vinci carried that kind of strength. The kind that came not from command, but from compassion.

He crossed borders once — the kind drawn on maps, not hearts — traveling from Mexico to a place that would become home. And somehow, wherever he went, home followed. It was there in the way he looked after the foster pups, patient and kind, making sure no tail went unnoticed, no whimper unanswered.

You’d see him standing guard at the edge of playtime, tail moving in that slow, steady rhythm — not a warning, but a promise. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” That was his way. Goofy, loyal, endlessly gentle.

Now, he waits at the Rainbow Bridge — not because he’s gone, but because love reassigns him to new duty. The same shepherd heart, the same soft gaze, posted at the Gate. Watching. Waiting. Welcoming.

The puppies he once helped — and even the ones who lost their way — they find him first. Somehow, they always do. And he gathers them close, tail sweeping through the light, guiding them with that same gentle nudge that once comforted so many on this side of things.

So when your heart aches and you wonder who’s watching over the little ones up there — picture Da Vinci. Standing tall, eyes kind, waiting with that goofy half-smile. Because love like his doesn’t fade. It simply changes assignments.