The Waterfall

Tobby is, in most ways, a very polite dog.

He doesn't bark at the table. He doesn't jump. He doesn't steal food from plates, at least not when anyone is watching. When we eat, he simply sits beside us, perfectly straight, perfectly still, looking up with the dignified patience of a gentleman waiting for his turn.

His face says: I am fine. I don't need anything. Please continue.

His mouth says something else entirely.

Because Tobby, who almost never drools, becomes a waterfall the moment food appears. A sandwich, a slice of cheese, the sound of the fridge door, a red apple from the bowl on the counter. Within seconds, there it is: one long, shining drop, slowly stretching toward the floor, while the rest of him pretends nothing is happening.

He can keep his whole body still. He just can't hide what he wants.

We laugh every time. My son calls it "the faucet." There is always a stack of napkins on our table, always in use, and never, ever enough when Tobby is around.

But lately, I've started to see it a little differently.

For most of my life, I was very good at sitting politely. At keeping my face. At saying I'm fine, I don't need anything, please continue, while wanting something so much it almost hurt: rest, help, a kind word, a little time for myself. I hid it so well that sometimes even I forgot it was there.

Tobby can't do that. When he wants something, the whole world knows. And nobody thinks less of him for it. We just smile, reach for another napkin, and usually, he gets a little piece of whatever it was.

Maybe there's something in that. Not the drool. The honesty.

What do you want so much that you've been too polite to admit it, even to yourself?

With love, from HerWay (and Tobby)

If this story touched you

From Down HereA Kiss Before Dinner

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