She’s gone, but the kibble keeps pouring. On a quiet morning in late October 2025, the world learned that Diane Keaton—Oscar-winning queen of neurotic charm, architectural savant, and unapologetic turtleneck collector—had orchestrated one final, perfect scene from beyond the grave. Tucked inside the legal folds of her last will and testament, filed in Los Angeles Superior Court and leaked to the press like a perfectly timed plot twist, is a jaw-dropping $5 million bequest: one million earmarked for the lifelong care of her beloved goldendoodle Reggie, and the remaining four million funneled into a newly minted trust for animal welfare charities that will outlive us all. Yes, the woman who once told Woody Allen “La-di-da” in Annie Hall has now whispered “Woof-di-da” to eternity, ensuring that every abandoned pup, every arthritic rescue cat, and every three-legged shelter superstar will feel the ripple of her love long after the credits roll on her own extraordinary life. Move over, Hollywood legacies—this is the ultimate tail-wagging encore.

Reggie, the floppy-eared co-star of Keaton’s later years, first bounded into the spotlight in 2018 when the actress posted an Instagram carousel of the then-puppy cavorting through her Spanish Colonial mansion in Sullivan Canyon. Caption: “Meet the new man in my life. He doesn’t talk back, doesn’t care about my hats, and has better hair than I do.” The internet melted. Over the next seven years, Reggie became Keaton’s shadow: curled on the velvet sofa during Zoom interviews, photobombing her Pinterest boards of reclaimed barn wood, even wearing a tiny bow tie to the 2023 premiere of Book Club: The Next Chapter. Friends say the dog was more than a pet—he was therapy, confidant, and the only creature allowed to chew the corners of her vintage Eames chair without a scolding. “Diane used to joke that Reggie was the only male who never disappointed her,” recalls a longtime producing partner. “But she wasn’t joking.”

So when Keaton passed peacefully at 79 in her sleep on September 12, 2025—surrounded by rescue dogs, Polaroids of old lovers, and a half-finished mood board for a Malibu treehouse—the will’s provisions hit like a Godfather horse-head shock, only infinitely fluffier. The Reggie Trust is a masterpiece of micromanaging affection: $1 million in a dedicated account managed by Keaton’s estate lawyer and a rotating board of animal behaviorists. Monthly stipends cover organic lamb-and-sweet-potato kibble, quarterly vet checkups at the celebrity-favored VCA in West Hollywood, and—because this is Diane Keaton we’re talking about—a wardrobe allowance for seasonal bandanas (pastels for spring, plaids for fall). Reggie’s primary caregiver? Longtime assistant Marla Ginsburg, sworn to uphold a 27-page rider that includes “daily 3 p.m. zoomies in the rosemary garden” and “no adoption by anyone under 40—Reggie deserves a calm lap, not a TikTok influencer.” The remaining $4 million seeds the Keaton Animal Kindness Foundation, a nonprofit already in talks with Best Friends Animal Society and the ASPCA to fund no-kill shelters, spay/neuter clinics in underserved L.A. neighborhoods, and a scholarship for veterinary students who promise to treat “the anxious ones with the same patience Diane gave her leading men.”

The numbers are staggering, but the sentiment is pure Keaton: quirky, generous, and fiercely protective of the voiceless. She never married, never had children—“My dogs were my kids,” she told Vogue in 2021—but her menagerie was legendary. There was Emmie, the rescue mutt who inspired 2016’s Poms; Clyde, the goldendoodle who photobombed her 2020 quarantine cooking videos; and a rotating cast of foster fails she’d adopt, rename after architects (hello, Frank Lloyd Wright the terrier), then quietly rehome with trusted friends when her travel schedule exploded. “Diane didn’t just love animals,” says Nancy Meyers, who directed her in Something’s Gotta Give. “She studied them. She’d notice a limp in a stray cat three houses down and have a plan before dessert.” Keaton’s Instagram, frozen at 1.8 million followers since her death, is a museum of wet noses and wagging tails—final post: a black-and-white of Reggie asleep on her chest, captioned “Home is wherever this heartbeat is.”

The will’s unveiling has unleashed a tsunami of Hollywood tears and tributes. Reese Witherspoon, who co-starred with Keaton in The Big Bounce, posted a throwback of the two women cradling rescue pups on set: “She taught me that kindness isn’t a grand gesture—it’s a million little bowls of water left out for strays.” Jane Fonda, Keaton’s Book Club co-conspirator, announced she’s matching the first $500,000 of the foundation with her own donation. Even Woody Allen—yes, that Woody—issued a rare statement: “Diane always said animals were better actors than people because they never lied. Turns out she was the best director of all—staging a finale that keeps giving curtain calls.”

Back at the Sullivan Canyon estate, now shuttered with black wrought-iron gates and a single bowl of fresh water on the stoop “for any creature who wanders by,” Reggie is adjusting to life post-Diane. Marla reports he still waits by the front door at 6 p.m. sharp—Keaton’s old cocktail hour—tail thumping against the terracotta tiles. The trust’s first disbursement? A custom orthopedic bed embroidered with the phrase “La-di-da, forever.” Shelter volunteers in South L.A. are already receiving grants for “Keaton Kits”—starter packs of leashes, bowls, and tiny turtlenecks for newly adopted seniors. One recipient, a blind poodle named Oscar, now sports a plaid mock-neck and a swagger that would make Keaton cackle.

The legal community is buzzing too. Estate planners are calling it “the Reggie Precedent”—a blueprint for pet trusts that go beyond basic care into emotional enrichment. “Most people leave $50,000 and a note saying ‘feed Fluffy,’” says Keaton’s attorney, Lisa Bloom. “Diane left a lifestyle. She wanted Reggie to feel the same absurd joy she did every time he stole a sock.” Animal law professors at UCLA are already drafting case studies; one quips that the trust’s bandana clause “has more detail than most prenups.”

In a town built on sequels and reboots, Diane Keaton has written the rare third act that can’t be green-lit by a studio. Her fortune—estimated north of $100 million from real estate flips, residuals, and that iconic Annie Hall vest—could have gone to museums, film schools, or yet another mid-century restoration. Instead, she chose the creatures who never asked for an autograph, never leaked to TMZ, never broke her heart. As the first snow dusts the Hollywood sign this winter, somewhere a rescue dog will curl into a fleece embroidered with a tiny “DK” monogram, belly full, tail wagging in its sleep. Diane Keaton may have left the soundstage, but her love keeps barking, keeps purring, keeps proving that the softest legacies are measured not in box office, but in bowls of water left out for the thirsty.

Because true love doesn’t end when the lights go down. It just finds a new lap to land on.