Summer walks in as I write in my journal and lets me stroke her head for a few moments before circling and laying at my feet. I asked her, “Should we have lived with you for a while before naming you, instead of picking a name and finding a dog to fit it? Is your real name Goo-Lack-a-Poo, an ancient pack name passed down through the ages?”
And now Dejah has come and laid down behind my chair, and here are the three of us, sharing a quiet moment.
Are their minds as full of thoughts and feelings as mine is? Do they curl up and stare into night contemplating what life could be like on other planets beyond the stars? Do they think about their litter mates and wonder how their lives are turning out?
Or are they content to lie here, no other thought in mind except “Yes, my body is comfortable resting in this position, and this is the be-all and end-all of life and isn’t it grand? We could be out in the cold and wind, but here we are, warm and content and fed. What more need we want?” What more, indeed?
I call softly to Summer, “Goo-Lack-a-Poo,” and she does not respond.
