Omigod! What luck! It’s my favorite person!

It’s such a gift to be greeted by a creature who’s eternally ecstatic to see you.  Even if it’s the tenth time that day you’ve come in the door, he’s still overjoyed.  “Omigod!  What luck!  It’s my favorite person!  A gift, a gift, a gift, a gift!”  and he bounds around until he finds some damp toy and pushes it into your leg, repeatedly, until you remember that the mail or the phone is peripheral to the present moment . . . the center of the universe is HERE, NOW, and its shape is DOG.  So you pull that damp toy and play tug-of-war and then fall down on the carpet and spoon with the old guy until he all but purrs and eventually snores.  Then you remember something you need to do, or an errand that needs to be run, and return an hour later, and there he is, “Omigod!  What luck!  It’s my favorite person!  What joy, what joy!” 

There’s nothing emptier than a house that’s s’posed to have a dog in it.