Puppy love

A presence breaks into my reverie as I sit immersed at the piano. I ignore her only as long as I can; her plaintive brown eyes won't be discouraged.

Emma sits just to the left of the piano bench, quite patiently asking for my affection. Never mind that she has rotten dog breath which she pants all over me while she waits. Never mind that even as she sits unmoving, the hair that plagues my house flys off of her in all directions. She doesn't know any of these things about herself. She just knows that she is loveable, that she loves me, and expects that I love her in return.

I know she wants to go for a walk. Forget the gelid wind, forget that I wasn't bred for the cold like she was with a built-in fur coat - there are uncharted snow drifts to be doven into! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the pure and simple honesty in her eyes, so I did both as I buried myself in winter wear and harnessed her up.

So now I sit here with fingers that can barely move to strike the keys and frozen blocks where my legs used to be. But I wonder at how easily Emma asks for the love she wants. Undemanding. With quiet expectation. Shamelessly. How would life be different if we could so unabashedly seek and fearlessly receive the love we want?