When the family dog is lying on his side in an effortless display of sublime relaxation, I can’t help but crouch down on my knees and pet him. If the sun is shining through the living room windows and onto portions of the floor, he’ll choose a spot where he can sunbathe. If you start petting him and then stop, he’ll twitch his front leg once as if to say “no, keep going.” If you’re a warm-hearted person, there’s no way you can refuse his wish. I think the reason his leg twitch is so effective at eliciting more petting is that we can appreciate how he feels. We’ve been held, nearly sleeping, as children. We don’t want the attention or that sense of security to end. I would’ve rather spent the night in my mother’s arms than be put to bed. More accurately, it’s a combination of two things that renders me incapable of refusing his requests to be petted more.

1. Knowing how he feels
2. The remarkableness of knowing how he feels despite our being different species

That he chooses to ask for more attention by a feeble twitch of his leg just adds to the sense of likeness. He has found it to be the minimum action required to get results, and it’s easy to sympathize with that rationale. He has his own large, square dog pillow in the alcove outside my room. After years of perfecting relaxing positions he discovered that hanging his head slightly over the edge of his bed feels good. In the evening, before I go to sleep, I come say goodnight, petting him in intervals separated by a twitch of his leg.

How strange, to be living amongst and cared for by another species. He is nearly ten years old. Sometimes when he’s lying on his side I give him a back message, as I’m sure he appreciates this at his age. I wish we went on more hiking and camping trips, he really enjoys those. I take comfort in knowing that love transcends physical form. I’m going to cry when he dies.