A book about exactly who they were.

The Book of Biscuit 2012–2026

This is the book of Biscuit and the people he belonged to Nell, Sam and Eli One of one.

Dear Biscuit, The house is very tidy now. Nobody asked for that. We’d take the socks back in a heartbeat. With love, Nell, Sam and Eli

You came home in a shoebox. The man outside the hardware store said you’d stay small. Sam held you on his knees the whole way. You were sick on his shoes at the second traffic light. He kept the shoes.

You were Biscuit for about a week. Then you were Spoon, because of what you ate. Then Mister Sock. Then Your Majesty, whenever you took the good chair. You answered to all of them, but only if there was food.

The green chair was yours. Nobody ever said so. The sun got to it at ten, and so did you. There’s still a dent in the cushion exactly your size. We’ve stopped plumping it.

Three things only you did. You brought one slipper, never two, to whoever came through the door. You sat up and listened ten minutes before Sam’s car turned into the street. And you chased your tail every time someone said “dinner.”

The chicken. Eli’s ninth birthday. Eight people, one roast chicken and you, alone with it for four minutes. We ate toast. You lay under the table groaning like a very old man, and nobody has ever looked happier.

You always sat in the middle. Nell reading. Sam playing the same three songs. Eli on the rug. You’d check on each of us, then lie down in the exact center of the room, so nobody could leave without stepping over you.

Six fifteen. An ordinary day began with a lead dropped on someone’s foot. Then you waited. You were very patient, and very close to their face.

And then it was evening. Home along Fern Street with Eli, you in front, looking back at every corner to check he was coming. Dinner. A circle. The green chair. That was a day. We had about five thousand of them.

The day we remember most You’d never seen the sea. You ran straight at it, then straight back, then straight at it again, for two hours. You slept all the way home with sand in your ears.

You taught us to slow down. In the last year the walks got shorter, and we stopped minding. Eli learned to go at your speed without being asked. We saw a lot more of Fern Street that way.

You died on a Tuesday in March. You were fourteen, at home, in the green chair, and we were all there. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. We planted an apple tree by the step.

What’s still here. The scratches by the back door. Your lead on its hook, because nobody wants to be the one who moves it. One slipper under the sofa, which we have decided to leave.

And at about ten to six, somebody still looks up at the door. Nobody says anything for a moment. Then someone says, “Biscuit would have heard that,” and we all laugh.

Biscuit 2012–2026 Also known as Spoon, Mister Sock, Your Majesty Best spot The green chair Favorite food Roast chicken, as it turned out A paw print, if you have one

This page is for you Print it and write to him. Or draw him, if someone here draws.

A note at the back This book is made only from what Nell, Sam and Eli told us. Nothing here was invented. If you’re reading it with a child Plain words help: “died,” not “went to sleep,” because children can take those literally. Let them ask the same question more than once, skip pages, or stop. The page at the back is there if they want it, and it’s fine if they don’t. This is a keepsake, not a treatment. If grief is getting in the way of everyday life, for a child or a grown-up, a doctor or counselor can help. Made by Pawsplained. Illustrated with AI, read by our team. © 2026 Pawsplained.