The Dog Under My Workbench

I opened my little jewelry shop on a snowy morning in 2001 with eleven pieces, a wobbly workbench, and a yellow Labrador named Biscuit asleep beneath it. I was terrified no one would come. At least I had him.

I'd found him shivering behind the hardware store. I meant to find him another home by spring. Instead, his blanket stayed beneath my bench. Somehow, we had both found a home.

That winter, some days the bell never rang. Biscuit rested his chin on my foot as I worked. I told him my worries; he never left.

When I sold my first silver heart, the woman asked if Biscuit was for sale. "Oh, no," I laughed. "He's the manager." She returned with a treat. I remember thinking we might be all right.

One evening, I drew the soft fold of his ear, then a tiny paw print. I made a silver pendant and wore it beneath my sweater. It was meant just for me.

A customer noticed it. Soon women were wearing those paw prints for dogs they loved, or still missed. I understood then how much love a piece of jewelry could hold.

My mother wore the same pearl necklace every Sunday. I can still picture her fastening it. Maybe that's why I always believed a ring or necklace could carry a memory.

Women came looking for gifts for daughters, mothers, and friends. Sometimes they came for themselves, after years of putting everyone else first. They'd tell me why a piece mattered. I loved hearing their stories. They made that little shop feel like home.

Biscuit was there for everything. I'd show him each new design, and if his tail thumped, it passed "the committee." That sound gave me courage when I needed it most.

Then his muzzle turned white, and our walks grew slower. I tucked another blanket around him beneath the workbench. I pretended not to notice how tired he was.

He died one gray afternoon in March, his head in my lap. I'd turned the sign to CLOSED. The shop had never felt so quiet.

I couldn't bring myself to move his blanket from beneath the workbench. It's still there.

Even now, when I finish a piece, I sometimes catch myself listening for the thump of his tail. Just for a moment, I forget.

Twenty-five years have passed. My hands have slowed, and customers have become dear friends. Some still stop by just to say hello. I never imagined a little shop could hold so much of my life.

Now it's my turn to retire. I know it's time, but I never thought I'd be afraid to close that door. I'll miss the bell, their familiar voices, and that little space beneath the workbench.

I don't want my remaining pieces forgotten in boxes. They were meant to be worn on ordinary days, given with love, and treasured long after this shop closes.

So, before I say goodbye, one last thank-you: the jewelry in my final collection is free. You simply cover shipping. Choose a piece you'll love wearing, or one to give someone dear.

Maybe a paw print for a dog you'll always remember. Or a bracelet for your daughter, a ring that reminds you of your mother. I hope it becomes something you treasure.

I like to imagine Biscuit still beneath that wobbly bench, his tail thumping as the last pieces find new homes. Thank you for giving a little part of our story a place in yours.

With love,

Rosalind