There is one moment in my day I have never learned to handle. It is not a difficult meeting or a long drive home. It is the moment I put on my coat.
Tobby knows that sound. The keys, the zipper, the shoes. Before I even reach the door, he is there, sitting very straight, looking up at me with those eyes. Big, brown, slightly worried eyes, with a question in them I can never answer well enough: You're leaving? Again? Without me?
It doesn't matter if I am going to work for nine hours or to the shop for ten minutes. The look is the same. As if I am breaking his heart. As if a very small boy is being left alone in a very big house.
I have walked out of that door thousands of times. It has never once been easy.
I tell him every time: I'll be back soon. I tell him what I'm going to buy. I tell him to be good. He listens to every word and doesn't believe a single one.
And then I come back.
The door is barely open, and there he is: the whole dog wagging, not just the tail. He runs in circles, he leans his whole weight against my legs, he brings me a toy as if I need to be welcomed properly. Ten minutes or ten hours, it doesn't matter. He greets me as if I had been gone for a year.
He never holds it against me. Not once. No sulking, no punishment, no long silence. Just joy that I am home.
I think that is what I am still learning from him. I spent so many years feeling guilty for every moment I wasn't there for someone, for every time I put myself first, even for an hour. Tobby shows me something simpler: you can leave, and come back, and still be loved.
When was the last time you forgave yourself as quickly as a dog forgives a closed door?
With love, from HerWay (and Tobby)
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