Just My Dog

He’s just my dog.

He is my other eyes that can see above the clouds, my other ears that hear above the winds.

He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being – by the way he rests against my leg, the way he thumps his tail at the smallest smile, and how he shows his hurt when I leave. (I think it makes him sick with worry when he is not along to care for me.)

When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive.

When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile.

When I am happy, he is joy unbounded.

When I am a fool, he ignores it.

When I succeed, he brags.

Without him, I am only another person.

With him, I am all powerful.

He has taught me the meaning of devotion is loyalty itself.

With him, I know secret comfort and a private peace.

He has brought me understanding where before I was ignorant.

His head on my knee can heal my human hurts.

His presence by my side is protection against my fears of dark and unknown things.

He has promised to wait for me … whenever … in case I need him, and I expect I will, as I always have.

Who is he? He’s just … my dog.

— Gene Hill