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’d cause mischief—just because he pines. He pines so badly he either refuses to eat or starts digging holes along the fence, like he’s trying to find a way to me. And when the hole is deep enough to hide his treasures, he piles in my things—slippers, phone charger, glasses—buries them, and stands guard like they’re the most precious things he owns.
He has epilepsy. Born with it. He’s lived with it his whole life, and so have I. For ten years now, I’ve given him his pills every morning and night. No, he doesn’t like them. Not in any form—not in mince, not in sausage, not even wrapped in his favourite treat. So I sit beside him, cradle his muzzle, drop the pill on the back of his tongue, and wait for him to swallow. He looks at me like he understands, like he’s accepted it—then feigns obedience, slinks off, and spits it under the wardrobe when he thinks I’m not looking. He comes back with guilty eyes, as if to say, *Sorry, I couldn’t do it again.*
During fits, he strains to lick my hand, like he’s begging forgiveness for not being my protector right now. I see him fighting his own body, struggling to stay strong in my eyes—and it breaks my heart.
He growls, ever so softly, when someone in the house raises their voice at me. His loyalty knows no bounds. If I collapse after a long shift, he presses against me and stands guard, refusing to leave even when called for walks.
His fur gets everywhere. Even after a flawless clean, tufts still turn up—on clothes, in meals, tangled in pillows. But it’s part of life now. I don’t mind. It’s his fur. A reminder, proof that I’m needed.
He asks to be held in the silliest way, and I drop everything, sit right on the floor, and hug him, resting my head on his back. Lifting 40 kilos of pure love is impossible—but pressing him close is non-negotiable.
He needs long walks. So many. Even when my legs ache or my eyelids droop with exhaustion, I muster the strength to grab the lead and go. Because he waits for it. 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 pounds or help with chores. He won’t pass tools, change bulbs, or debate politics. He’s just there. Quiet. With faith, trust, and devotion beyond human grasp.
He exists. Damp nose, kind eyes, a heavy sigh when I leave, and boundless joy when I return. His love isn’t conditional—it just *is*. No demands, no strings.
When I want to cry, when hope falters, when everything feels meaningless—I look at his face. His eyes ask, *Are you all right?* And suddenly, I know—I’m not alone. I have him.
Mark Twain once wrote, *”If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.”* Now I understand exactly what he meant.
I can’t leave him. Because without him, life would be quieter… but emptier too.
