She walks around as though she isn't saving people's lives. She wanders into whatever room one of us is occupying and makes herself a place near us. She chooses where to be with the kind of decision-making process only few possess and no one else understands. She doesn't favor, but solves.
She speaks in grunts. There's one for contentment, frustration, exhaustion, and bliss. And we can tell the difference, because our ears are specially trained to respond to her requests. She gets things she doesn't have to ask for, because it's the very least we can do. She walks around as though she isn't the manifestation of what a saving grace is.
She adjusts. If we're moving quickly, she keeps up. If we're worn out, she's protecting us from the bastards that got us down, but she's sleeping too. If we're sick she's patient, and if we're too busy she's not. We're allowed more of our humanity because of this animal than we ever were permitted before her.
We have this creature who is unfailingly on our side, who greets us--even after we've left her home alone for hours--as though we are a king and queen and she is dying to meet and serve us. She is a princess, but one that behaves. She walks around as though she is unaware of her pain relieving powers.
When everything else is too much, when life scares the fun out of living it for a while, and when the place right outside our door seems too overwhelming, I watch her and play with her ears. He wrestles with her. We lie together and talk and she talks and we tell her how much we adore her, how our lives were empty before she chose us. It's these times when we see her walk around, gracefully placing one foot in front of the other. She doesn't know that she is setting an example and serving as a reminder.
She walks around as if she doesn't know she's saving people's lives...
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