On the outside, I suppose that’s how I look, too. Tiny but tough.

But inside? Well. Sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can’t find that guy to save my life.

It’s like he’s cowering in some corner of my heart.

I hate it when that happens. I hate that I’m not the guy my friends think I am. The guy the world expects.

I keep waiting for things to go bad on me. Worrying that my nice, tidy little dog life will blow up in my face.

I think George is a worrier, too. He’ll get up in the middle of the night and head to the kitchen sometimes, his old slippers scuffing on the wooden floor. I always hear him. Always join him.

When he opens the fridge, the light spills out like maple syrup on a hot pancake. Wonderful scents drift my way. Leftover meat loaf. Stinky cheese. Expired yogurt that someone might as well eat, and it seems like the dog is the safest bet.

The smells rain around me, and yeah, my tongue starts hanging out, and I nudge George’s pj’ed leg. “You can’t sleep either, huh?” he’ll say. Or maybe: “I can’t tell if you have insomnia or just a very acute sense of smell.”

Both, actually.

I wait. He usually makes himself a PB&J with banana, which is good with me, because the crusts are where you really get that fun chew factor going.

Now and then, after we eat, we sit on the back porch and George scratches my ears. Especially my right ear. It’s my favorite.

I understand his worry, I think. George works so hard. His wife was really sick for a long time. And he loves his daughter so, so much.

Sometimes when Julia climbs on the school bus, I’ll watch George watching her. All that caring and concern is painful to smell. Especially the briny scent of the stray tear he’ll flick aside with the back of his hand like sea spray.

More than once, George and I have dozed off together.

That’s the best kind of snooze, if you ask me. Good, warm, safe-in-someone’s-arms sleep.

not talking

Often when I’m with Ivan, we don’t even bother talking.

We just look out at his domain, at the green grass and the crazy babies and the swaggering juveniles and the hardworking females, and we think of nothing and everything.

When you’ve been through the worst with someone, you appreciate the best.

That’s why sometimes, when he says, “Hey, Bob,” it’s enough for me to say, “Hey, Ivan,” and then we just listen to the palm trees rustle and watch the saw grass sway.

brave