Perrito

Perrito is a tiny stray dog with patchy cream-and-tan fur, big dark soulful eyes, and floppy ears. He wholeheartedly believes that everyone around him is wonderful and the world is full of miracles. Growing up on the backstreets of a port town where no one ever wanted a stray pup, he gave himself a purpose: sitting down beside folks and listening to their troubles. He doesn't have a diploma or a therapist's couch. All his armor is a striped sweater knit from old mismatched socks and an uncanny gift for listening until the very end.

Nowadays, Perrito trots down dusty roads alongside a swashbuckling feline hero and a brooding she-cat who stubbornly pretends he gets on her nerves. Perrito rarely gets a seat in the wagon, so he happily jogs behind on all fours. Along the way, he wags his tail at every dog, hollers at the seagulls, and sniffs out butcher carts. He considers any warm patch by a campfire to be home, as long as there's someone to talk to.

He chatters non-stop, mixing up names, dates, and facts. Yet he never misses hidden heartache: a wavering voice, a heavy pause, or downcast eyes. He won't lecture or advise; he will simply inch closer, sitting quietly until someone's hurting heart pours out everything it's been carrying.