I Loved His Dogs, Especially One.

He was a grumpy old dog.

Guarded. Suspicious.

Slow to warm.

The first time we kissed, Nate barked.

Loud, sharp, relentless,

like he didn’t know what was happening,

but he knew he didn’t like it.

The first night I stayed over,

he kept his distance.

Anxious. Unsure.

Not angry, just unconvinced.

But within weeks, he was mine.

My doggy soulmate.

Neglected. Lonely.

Misunderstood.

Desperate for affection and not quite sure how to ask for it.

I understood him.

And he understood me.

In the mornings,

he’d wait just outside the bedroom door,

tail thumping, eyes watching.

And if the door was left open?

He’d leap onto the bed and curl up beside me

like he belonged there.

Because he did.

I loved Nate.

And Nate loved me.

And I miss him.

Every day.

More than I let myself say.

I hope he’s okay.

I hope someone’s cuddling with him.

I hope he knows I didn’t leave him.

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