Goodbye Noa

A tribute to our gentle, fluffy friend who made everyone feel at home

A slightly different newsletter today. Something I had hoped I would never have to write. But if you met her during one of our cooking classes, I’m sure she left a mark on your heart too.

She was more than a dog—she was part of the team, the soft soul that welcomed you at the gate, wagging her tail as if she’d known you forever. She lay next to the table during lunches, received cuddles like they were her birthright, and added warmth to every gathering in the kitchen.

Writing this now is a way to honour her memory, to keep her spirit alive not only in our hearts but also in the community she helped build. This is for those of you who met her, loved her, or simply smiled at her photos through the years.

Let me tell you about Noa.

My first baby. My old lady. The welcome committee. My white cloud of fluffiness. My friend. My dog. Noa crossed the rainbow bridge on Friday.

She was the gentlest, most caring, people-loving dog. She was the personification of our family spirit: she loved lying in the centre of the room when the whole family gathered around her, rejoicing in our company and listening to all the chatter.

She loved welcoming people: friends who felt like family, cooking class students who showered her with love every time, missing their own puppies at home, postmen and passers-by alike. If you gave her the slightest bit of attention, she instantly became your friend. She would ask for cuddles from everyone, her paw gently landing on your forearm the moment you stopped. You were her cuddle jukebox.

She was not impressed by the beach or the sea, but she loved—adored—the snow. Even though she only had the chance to see it a couple of times, those were the moments when I saw her at her happiest: a crazy pup, running with her head down and her tongue sticking out to lick the fresh snow.

But it’s our most intimate moments that I will miss the most. Spotting her white ears and gentle hazel eyes peeking out from behind the wall whenever I came home from a walk. I couldn’t see it, but I knew she was vigorously wagging her tail. Watching her chew on a dog stick, her paws crossed to hold it, her mouth wide open. Listening to her soft snoring at night was the best lullaby—an instant way to relax and fall asleep.

We’d been sleeping in the same room since the very first day she came home from the rescue house, in February 2013.

She came into my life just as a new group of friends—and a special guy, Tommaso—had entered the bigger picture. We all grew up together, in friendship and in love, and she witnessed and blessed it all.

She welcomed Tommaso into our home and immediately recognised him as the pack leader—the one who, for ten years, took her to the vet, gave her pills when needed, fed her, and walked her whenever we ventured out of the gate.

She took part in our wedding, proudly wearing the same flowers I had on my dress. She witnessed the moment we discovered we were going to become parents to a little human, and she sniffed Livia gently on her very first day at home.

In the last month, when she could no longer climb the stairs as easily as before, she slept in Livia’s bedroom—in exactly the same spot she had chosen on her first day at home. It was a full circle.

We were with her in her final moments, cuddling her, scratching her behind the ear just as she liked, stroking her soft, fluffy fur. Her last breath was a gentle, quiet, peaceful caress on my hand—a goodbye, a see-you-soon.

She has now joined Kira, my first dog—the one who taught me I was a dog person—and nonna Marcella, who left us just two months ago.

Now our house and our family have one more guardian angel watching over us.