A Boy and His Dog
His first word was “dog.” Not “mama” or “dada.” Dog.
His first sentence was “where dog go?” I was carrying him and he pushed my face out of the way so he could watch our dog Churchill.
He has always loved dogs. Dogs have always loved him.
He loved Churchill to the moon and back, his eyes lighting up like candles each day when he greeted him. Big hugs for a dog who merely tolerated him.
When Churchill died, he carried around his picture and slept with it for a week, occasionally stopping to throw his head back and wail tears of utter devastation.
I have spent hours in the PetSmart down the road on Saturday afternoon so he could just go and love on the dogs at the adoption stand.
When we picked out Tess, her weary mother of 9 puppies got up from where she was resting, walked over to Tate and settled against him. When Tess finally arrived at our house, oh how he cried because she didn’t love him with her whole heart immediately, the way he had her the first time he laid eyes on her.
I told him to give it time, and I was sure she would soon be his favorite.
I was right.
Tess just might be his soulmate. I often find them curled up together, their hearts trading unspoken words of affection and love. She loves us all, but I think she would follow him to the ends of the earth, then gladly jump into his arms to be carried off to the moon.