I love every feathery hair of Pete. I love that his nose is always a little wet, but not so much that you mind when he presses it against you. I love how the hair pokes out from between the pads of his feet. I love how his ears perk up when he’s excited, growing twice their normal size and dwarfing his tiny, stuffed-animal face. I adore his nub of a tail and the wispy pouf of hair that sticks out from its end. I love it when he sprawls out, stretching his back legs behind him like frog at the height of a hop.
He is compassionate--once comforting me by jumping on the bed and laying on me when he saw I was crying. He is truly joyful. He is happiest on the go and runs for the joy of running. The moment he’s let off his leash he is gone. All you see is the grass swaying behind him as he makes his way out into the wilderness. When he returns his mouth is open and panting, and you’d swear he’s smiling because of the way his little lips curl up at the edges. He is beautiful. His pumpkin orange markings are flawless, save for the spot on his mouth. It’s just a little crooked, like he tried to put on lipstick after a night of bar hopping.
For all the love I have for him, it’s hard to remember that he was our accident baby. He was the result, not of careful consideration and planning, but of a little too much wine on a Thursday night. By the time morning came, casual conversation about a second dog had ended in a breeder being selected and the conclusion that Henry would be miserable without a fluffy white brother. The next morning we were swimming in a combination of excitement and uncertainty.
But here we are, and here Pete is. He sheds pretty much constantly and he makes this crazy, some-one-is-strangling-me-please-help noise when he’s excited, but he’s our fuzzy, polka-dotted baby. And I’ll never regret our drunken decision.
He is compassionate--once comforting me by jumping on the bed and laying on me when he saw I was crying. He is truly joyful. He is happiest on the go and runs for the joy of running. The moment he’s let off his leash he is gone. All you see is the grass swaying behind him as he makes his way out into the wilderness. When he returns his mouth is open and panting, and you’d swear he’s smiling because of the way his little lips curl up at the edges. He is beautiful. His pumpkin orange markings are flawless, save for the spot on his mouth. It’s just a little crooked, like he tried to put on lipstick after a night of bar hopping.
For all the love I have for him, it’s hard to remember that he was our accident baby. He was the result, not of careful consideration and planning, but of a little too much wine on a Thursday night. By the time morning came, casual conversation about a second dog had ended in a breeder being selected and the conclusion that Henry would be miserable without a fluffy white brother. The next morning we were swimming in a combination of excitement and uncertainty.
But here we are, and here Pete is. He sheds pretty much constantly and he makes this crazy, some-one-is-strangling-me-please-help noise when he’s excited, but he’s our fuzzy, polka-dotted baby. And I’ll never regret our drunken decision.
