The yearning

There is a place in the heart of a dog that defies understanding. There is a look in their eyes of yearning and reaching to communicate — of wanting to, to, to what? Wanting to eat, to sleep, to be near and ready to chase squirrel, rabbit or ball, ever willing to chew on a stick or a fine nylon bone? But that look — that seeking of something just beyond comprehension — that sadness as if they know we just don’t get it and perhaps never will.

And then that contentedness, as if we don’t understand because it’s just so simple — that leaning in as if all they ever yearned for was that hug, that rough massaging of the ears, that two-handed yes-you-are-such-a-good-dog affirmation.

Those are the moments when maybe we do understand each other and all that was really needed was a nearness, a companionship, an I see you and it is enough to be next to each other and having a moment together, and all the yearning either of us ever had is satisfied in this quiet moment, this indescribable quiet, this “here you are and here and I and nothing else is necessary and nothing else matters.” And maybe I do understand after all.

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