Hi, I am Yanran, and I have loved dogs for as long as I can remember.

You might think that someone who paints
portraits for so many dogs must have one of her own. But the truth is, I’ve
never had my own dog. My mom is afraid of them, so growing up, having one was
never an option.

My grandparents, however, once had a brown toy
poodle named CiaoCiao—the very first dog in our family. She was a little
troublemaker. She would sneak bites of food, watch television with us, play
with my uncle’s socks and empty soda bottles, claim our pillows as her own, and
absolutely hate baths.

During every summer, winter break, and holiday,
my favorite place in the world was my grandparents’ house. Grandpa would wake
up early and sit on the balcony, reading the newspaper, the faint scent of ink
and cigarette smoke drifting softly around him. When I opened my eyes in the
morning, I would see him there, and I knew breakfast from grandma would soon
follow. And beside me, always, was CiaoCiao.

Grandpa used to take me to the supermarket and
buy me boxes of Mushroom Choco Boy. I didn’t like them at first, but because
they came from him, I grew to love them. I liked sharing snacks with CiaoCiao
too—though chocolates were always off-limits.

Every memory I have of my grandparents is
gently tied together with her.

In the summer of 2013, my grandpa passed away
from colon cancer. When he was ill, I prayed every night, promising I would
become a very, very good person if he could stay. But the prayers didn’t work.
A year later, CiaoCiao was gone too, taken in a car accident. We said she
crossed the rainbow bridge—perhaps to keep grandpa company in heaven.

At that time, I didn’t fully understand what
it meant to lose someone you love. But as the years passed, the longing became
something quiet and constant, like a tide you cannot stop. There is nothing to
do but let it come, and let it go.

I don’t pray anymore, but I still want to
believe that death is not an ending—it is the beginning of another dawn. That
love doesn’t disappear, it simply changes its form. Maybe it lives in small
moments: two strangers passing by, sharing a quiet smile. Maybe that is what
returning looks like.

I still want to be a very, very good person.
And I want to carry forward the love CiaoCiao left with me.

“Hi… do you know my CiaoCiao? She lives in
heaven with my grandpa. She was a very, very good dog.”

So let me become friends with you—and with
your beloved furry family. Let me paint their gentle faces as a small proof of
our shared love.