You may decide that what I told him today was harsh.

“I have a life without you. I know that’s not true for you, and I’m sorry.”

He looked at me with those amazing eyes, gazing through, it seemed, to my very soul. I could tell what he was thinking.

Did she just say the word “walk”?  Or “park”? Maybe she said “squirrel” or “ice cream.”

I love my dog, of course. A lot. And it doesn’t bother me when he spreads out on the floor next to my chair when I’m on the computer. And it doesn’t get on my nerves too much when he follows me from room to room, yes, including the bathroom.

But for whatever reason, when I get comfy with my feet up to write a post longhand, he usually sits next to the ottoman and stares at me. Intently. And whines in a barely audible voice. If I ignore him, he moves closer and tries to climb into my lap. Trust me; a 96 pound coonhound is no lap dog.

Riley interrupting today’s writing

This is highly distracting. It does a number on my creativity. I was trying to keep a nice theme going in these posts leading up to Mother’s Day.

And now here I am writing about being a dog-mom.

Riley was rescued when he was eighteen months old. He had been caged outside and left mostly on his own. The owners barely interacted with him; they didn’t walk him or play with him. Had it not been for the kind neighbors (including my best friend) in that small town, Riley likely would have died from lack of food and water. Just when the snow and frigid temps set in during January 2014, a local rescue group got the dog out of that terrible situation.

My friend visited him at the rescue home and emailed photos to her friends along with a note that the dog was now looking for his “forever” home. I could feel my heart strings being tugged from a couple hundred miles away.

We adopted Riley without ever seeing him. My daughter and I picked him up at a rest area halfway between the rescuer’s home and ours. My husband’s first words upon seeing him were, “You didn’t tell me you were bringing home a pony.”

Riley was frightened of everything from the washer to the stairs to the reflection of himself at night in our large windows. I had to block off access to the windows because he wouldn’t stop barking at himself. He’s settled in and although he’s not afraid of loud noises or thunderstorms, he remains terrified of flashlights, lit candles on a birthday cake, and a camera’s flash.

It turns out he really likes children. But he remains mostly aloof to other dogs at the dog park. He’s odd man out; while the cool dogs play and chase each other, he hangs around on the fringes or sticks close to me. If he thinks other dogs are fighting, he runs over to break it up by barking loudly in their ears.

I guess not having the opportunity to interact or play for the first year and a half of his life robbed him of some valuable social skills.

Riley doesn’t give kisses or slurps. He prefers to nose-bump you when he wants you to notice him. I actually got my first kiss from him last month on Easter. One kiss in three years. We celebrated.

Riley serves as a good reminder that love can be demonstrated in a variety of ways. Even if it means following you into the bathroom.

To my readers: Does your pet have a special way of showing you affection?