Sometimes I think that she doesn’t love me anymore, that after all our time together, the almost 200,000 miles we logged, years in strange places away from everyone we loved, she prefers the company of her daddy. Probably because he feeds her table scraps and lets her on the furniture when I never would. She is his shadow, following him around the house, racing into the bedroom with him at night so she doesn’t have to be without him. Most times it feels like she is no longer my dog.
But tonight when I came home, she was my puppy again. Sitting as close to me as she could, tail wagging, eyes pleading. Her daddy had taken her out and fed her so it wasn’t about those things. She wanted me, and I gave in, scooping her 80 pounds up and squeezing her tight around her big chest, letting her go for a few seconds before she pushed in closer.
She is still my puppy, even though she mostly is his dog. My sweet Cobbler still remembers me, and blesses me now and again.