GOLDEN EARS 49°21’46.1”N 122°30’27.0”W
Sometimes we trek and camp for days at a time. Everywhere we go feels exciting and new, and I never feel scared because my home and safe place is always with my human. Okay, maybe thunderstorms scare me. But even when I’m shaking, Lizzy holds me tight, tells me I’m safe, and that it will pass. Just like all the times when she goes through her own emotional storms, I make sure she knows I’m there, she’s safe, and the hard times will pass. She tells me I’m her best friend. Obviously, I knew that. She is my world. Every year that goes by, the deeper we understand each other. I can read my human’s mind. And somehow, she can read mine, which is annoying when she spots the mischievous spark in my eyes before I get in a good garbage bin raid. But mostly, we are of one mind. I can read my human’s intuition before she even knows it herself. Sometimes I’ve had to warn her about circumstances and other humans who I don’t trust. Similarly, I also let her know about other humans I do trust. Although, when I was 9 years old, this sort of backfired on me when I found Lizzy a random man friend in the mountains. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was an extra good one, and I squealed and jumped all over him in my effort to show Lizzy this one’s heart. As it turns out, I was rather appalled when Lizzy trusted me too hard and fell in love with this stranger. The audacity! I may be a good dog, but I’m also a jealous dog, and I had to sit between them and push them apart whenever they got too close. But soon I realized that loving and being loved by two humans didn’t mean divided love—it meant double the love. And that’s how we became a family, adventuring the world all together. Over the years now, I’ve collected a large assortment of prized memories with my humans. Napping and rolling around in the mountain meadows. Getting the zoomies every time my paws touch the mossy floor of a rainforest. Snatching the freshly baked buns off the kitchen table, or stealing them later from Lizzy’s backpack during our hiking breaks. She says I’m worse than the bears, but I don’t know about that. Waking up in a tent, my nose twitching to the fresh outdoor scents while I wiggle and roll all over both my humans to wake them up. Now, I’m 14 years old. Sometimes my legs ache, and the mountain terrain seems to have taken to tripping me up unexpectedly. But boy, do we still have fun, living this delicious life to the fullest! My humans watch out for me extra now, sometimes carrying me over the untrustworthy obstacles. We spend a lot more time wading into cold lakes and rivers, which feels good on my bones before a glorious nap on the grass in the sunshine. I often catch Lizzy’s gaze—she seems to always be watching me, trying to soak in every moment together. Good! This is what I’ve been trying to teach her my entire life, to be more present. Now, when she leans in close for cuddles, she often says “It’s my turn to look after you.” Silly girl, we’ve been looking after each other all along. Another thing about us dogs: When we love, we live forever. The bond never breaks. Our humans might not always be able to pet us, but we remain with them eternally, living in the mystery of the disappeared sandwich, or the sense of celebration when our humans remember to play. We live in the moments you remember us, and even in the ones you don’t. We’re eternally loyal creatures, after all. And when you notice us, we’ll remind you, sometimes very enthusiastically, just what love is.
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MOTHER VOLUME FOUR
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