I like how his clumsy, capable paws cradle his face when he's sleeping. I like how he asks to come into a room by muffling a bark: "huff, huff, huff."
When I walk in the door, work-weary and burden-bearing, he greets me as though he were five and he just learned he was going to Disney World;
I like how he gives me slobber-soaked kisses, and I like how he has to shove something into his mouth just so he can make inscrutable noises.
Sometimes I try to interpret what he says so that I can talk back to him with my own inscrutable noises. Even though we cannot talk to each other, I feel like he bears my burdens and I feel as though I know his soul. His is a good soul; it is warm and it is kind.
I like how whenever I disguise myself with a hat or glasses he sees through my facade and he tries to take them off. Ineffectively pawing, he swats my sunglasses. I hear him saying, "I like you the way you are. You don't have to enhance your appearance. You think these things make you look cool, but I think you look weird. Be yourself."
Sometimes his eyes are sorrowful and sad and sometimes joyful and sometimes mischievous, but always sympathetic. Look into the eyes of an animal, will you?
My dog's eyes reflect a deep soul, one that has childlike faith: one that is content to lie on couches, accept the affection doled out to him, and dole out affection when it is not required of him.
Mark Twain said this: "The dog is a gentleman; I hope to to his heaven, not man's."
My dog has a kind spirit, even if he steals corn cobs out of the trash can, and even if he smells bad sometimes.
I like my dog, a lot.
He is better to me than I am to some people.
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