Saturday, March 8, 2014
(Continued from page 1)
Sasha, it turns out, is probably twice the 4-5 years of age she originally was estimated to be. I almost wept to read that the family had been so disappointed to hear that news from the vet, because already they had bonded with her to the degree that they could not bear the thought of a foreshortened life with the dog who couldn't tolerate a moment without them in it.
This -- witnessing beauty in an ordinary being and anticipating, with quiet dread, how fleeting the heart-to-heart bond across species can be -- is the way love brings focus to those who open to it and eclipses the possibility of problems with the promise of loyalty and friendship, and the fulfillment of mutual need.
As I write, my own new dog lies asleep at my elbow, having wedged her body into what she recognized was an envelope of pillows made for a pup as well as a lower back support for me. She is wending her way to a midnight snooze on the crown of my head, I know already from brief experience.
Occasionally now I think I might end up temporarily, predictably, with fleas or a tick or two; but instead of looking for trouble or surrendering to vague anxieties, I simply change the bed linens every day. Then, at bedtime, she makes it to the coverlet first and squeezes into some part -- if not all -- of the bed I might otherwise occupy, and I lie down on whatever space is left.
As I said, things are returning to normal. I know my place and it's exactly where I want to be.
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