The Cockapoo Knows

The dog knows. She always knows. She’s at my feet before the first tear falls, like she’s got advance warning from whatever system tracks my breakdowns.

I didn’t get a dog because I was lonely. I got a dog because my kids wanted one and I was trying to build a life that felt like a life instead of a waiting room. But the dog turned out to be mine. Not officially. Officially she belongs to the household. Practically she follows me from room to room like I’m the only interesting thing in the building.

She sits on my feet when I’m working. She puts her head on my lap when I’m staring at my phone at 11pm trying not to text something I’ll regret. She sleeps on the bed. I know you’re not supposed to let them. I don’t care. The bed was too big for one person and she fills the gap without having opinions about what I’m wearing.

There’s something about being loved by a creature that doesn’t speak. No conditions. No subtext. No “I just don’t find you attractive any more” over toast. Just a warm weight on your feet and a face that says I’m here and that’s it. That’s the whole offer.

She was there the night I cried on the kitchen floor. Not a metaphorical kitchen floor. The actual, tile, cold kitchen floor at 1am because sometimes the weight of it all pushes you down and the floor is as far as you get. She lay next to me. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t tell me to pull myself together. Just lay there. Breathing. Being warm.

People underestimate what that’s worth. A warm thing next to you when the world is cold. A heartbeat that isn’t yours. A living creature that has decided, for reasons known only to itself, that you are its person.

I am her person.

She is the only one in this house who has never asked me to be less than I am.

And on the days when I don’t know who I am at all, she doesn’t care. She just sits on my feet and waits.

Good girl.