George Herbert

This week I have been startled by my own unadulterated delight.

It helps that my delight spends the weekends and evenings following me from room to room to room for no reason other than to be near me.

I grew up in a house full of dogs and kids, but I have only briefly ever owned a dog before George Herbert. (I had one in highschool who died 2 months after I got her). My whole life, the family dogs always chose other siblings for their owners. Somehow, no matter how much I am gone, no matter how messy I am, how sensative, awkward, or posessive I am, this critter still considers me his owner. I belong to him.

George does this thing where he flops his furry self at my feet and sleeps. If I stand up for even a moment--to move 12 feet from my sofa to pour the brewing coffee--he hoists his sleepy self up, plods after me, and harumphs onto the kitchen's tile floor. He stays as long as I pour the coffee, I go back to the couch and so does he, same hoisting and harumphing. For him, this has to be an excruciating 24 feet, but he does it because I do.

My dad got this picture while George was peeking to make sure I was still there. This is his response to the question, "Where's George?" He loves it when I "find him."

I can't believe I am the one who gets to be his favorite.