I can’t leave him. He brings so much trouble… and so much love.
I can’t leave him alone for long. Not because he’ll make a mess or cause any trouble—it’s because he gets lonely. He misses me so much that he either refuses to eat or starts digging holes along the fence, as if trying to find a way to me. And when the hole gets deep enough to hide his treasures, he buries my things inside—slippers, phone chargers, glasses—then guards them like they’re the most precious things he has.
He has epilepsy. Congenital. He’s lived with it his whole life. And so have I. For ten years now, I’ve given him his medicine every morning and evening. No, he doesn’t like pills. Not in any form—not hidden in mince, not wrapped in sausage, not even in the tastiest treat. So I have to sit beside him, hold his muzzle, place the pill at the back of his tongue, and wait until he swallows. He looks at me like he understands, like he accepts it—then, pretending everything’s fine, he walks away to secretly spit it under the wardrobe. And he comes back with guilty eyes, as if to say, *Sorry, I failed again.*
During his seizures, he tries to reach for my hand and lick it, as if to say, *Sorry I can’t protect you right now.* I see how hard he fights, how he struggles against his own body, how he wants to stay strong in my eyes—and my heart breaks.
He growls softly if anyone in the house raises their voice at me. His loyalty knows no bounds. And if I’m exhausted after a long shift, he lies beside me and stands guard, refusing to leave, even when called for a walk.
His fur sheds everywhere. Even after a perfect clean, it somehow appears in the most unexpected places—on clothes, on food, on pillows. But it’s just part of life now. I don’t get annoyed—I’m used to it. It’s his fur. Like a reminder that he needs me.
He asks to be held in the funniest way. And I drop everything, sit right on the floor, wrap my arms around him, and rest my head on his back. Because lifting 40 kilos of pure love is impossible—but holding him close is a must.
He needs long walks. So many. Even when my legs ache and my eyes sting from exhaustion, I find the strength to grab the lead and go with him. Because he waits for this. Because for him, it’s not just a walk—it’s time together, and that’s enough.
He doesn’t speak, argue, or give advice. He doesn’t earn money or help with chores. He doesn’t hand me tools, change light bulbs, or debate politics. He’s just there. Quietly. With faith, with trust, with a loyalty so deep it’s hard for humans to understand.
He just *is*. With his wet nose, kind eyes, and heavy sigh when I leave. And with uncontainable joy when I return. His love isn’t conditional. It’s just there. No demands. No rules.
And when I want to cry, when I feel like giving up, when everything seems pointless—I just look at his face. His eyes ask, *Are you okay?* And suddenly, I remember—I’m not alone. I have him.
*“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. That is the difference between a dog and a man,”* Mark Twain once wrote. Now I know exactly what he meant.
I can’t leave him. Because without him, life would be quieter… but so much emptier.
