Sweetpea came into my life eight years ago—a stray dog I met at a subway station. She was less than a year old then, lost and frightened amidst the rush of strangers. I walked up to her, she looked at me, and I asked, half-jokingly, "Hey, are you lost? Wanna come home with me?" To my surprise, she followed me home. She became family. That was eight years ago.
She's not a purebred, nor is she particularly smart. As a puppy, she was mischievous—chewed up so many of my things. On our walks, she always has her own agenda; she won't come home until she's thoroughly explored every corner. She often gets herself all muddy. But that's okay—I love her.
I'm not someone with a long list of impressive labels—just ordinary, not particularly smart, not wealthy. And honestly? I lose my patience sometimes. I raise my voice at her—frustrated by her stubbornness, exhausted by her picky eating. She flinches for a second. Then she wags her tail and leans into me anyway.
But that's okay—she loves me. All of me.And that's exactly how I feel about her.
Every time I come home exhausted, she's the first to run to me, greeting me with a big, warm hug. And I've learned to read her too—when she's feeling down, I hold her close and rub her belly. She can't tell me in words, but the way her little tail keeps wagging—I know she's happy again. That simple joy, the way we heal each other—that's what it's all about.
