Promise

Sometimes it just hits me.  Like this morning, I was sitting at my desk, writing, and Murphy came over, nuzzled me.  I stroked the top of her head.  And I thought:  I don't have an infinite amount of days left doing just this.  These quiet moments with Murphy.  Or the walks.  Or the ball throws.  

It seems cliched to talk about time.  That it was merely a few minutes ago she was a puppy.  Or how when she was young it seemed like we would play ball or run in the mornings for the rest of our lives.  And that our lives were linked, forever.  

I realize it much more frequently now.  That Murphy is finite.  It is my job to keep shining light on the greatness of our time together.  Suppress my frustration when she can't seem to settle down while I am trying to work, to find reservoirs of understanding with her anxiety.  It is my work.

I made this promise, fourteen years ago, that I would care for her.  That I would make sure she had the best life.  She never said anything.  Labs don't have to make promises for ways of being that are inherent to them.  She gives me her all.  

I stroke her head.  Tell her I love her.  Savor the moment.

Murphy's day