Zelda, lying on me last night while I was stretched out on the chaise.
This dog is made of sweetness. When she crawls up in my lap, because she is a 55-pound lapdog, and lays her head on my chest, and looks at me with her big brown eyes that are just endless pools of love, I do the only thing that can possibly convey I love her back in equal measure: I tell her the story of the day we adopted her.
It's not that I think she understands the words I'm saying. I'm quite sure she doesn't. It's just that I can't tell that story—especially not to her, gazing into her sweet face and rubbing the tips of her wee Dorito ears—without pouring into it all my feelings of relief and joy that we found her. And she always knows what I am feeling.
Nobody else was looking at you except me, I tell her. I couldn't believe they could pass you by. Her tail wags and thumps against my leg. Her eyes hold my gaze, and she gives me that grin of hers. I told the Dadsy I didn't think I'd be able to put you back in your cage. I imagine my fondness for her, my fierce protectiveness, my loyalty, moving through my fingertips and into her velvety ears.
They are all the things I see in her face, and I want to give them right back.
I knew you were my dog, I tell her. You are my dog.