My little dog

Edith Wharton once described her little dog as “a heartbeat at [her] feet.”

My little dog, Phoenix, is my heartbeat. Sometimes, at my feet. At times, on my lap. Most often, cuddled up against my leg if I’m sitting up and my side if I’m lying down.

Phoenix’s highest religion is body contact. Incomplete and restless until he has obtained the most physical contact possible, there is no distance he won’t travel, no heights he won’t climb, no blankets he won’t dig through. Sometimes, I think he isn’t even satisfied with laying on me; like he needs to be even more closely connected, like he wishes he could crawl inside my being and lounge alongside my vital organs. Especially on cold days like today.

What he doesn’t know is that he’s already there; he’s just as vital as my lungs, stomach and liver. In spite of his occasional snoring.