Witnessing Love

I have loved one woman my whole life. From the moment I saw her, I knew everything would change. I can't lie — the first time she held me, I was overwhelmed. She smelled different than anything I’d smelled before. Spicy. Itchy. Warm. But her excitement was contagious, and when she wrapped around me, I was a goner. I belonged to her.

She took me home, and soon the spicy smell became the scent of safety, the scent of us. My fur thickened, my snout lengthened, and my legs grew strong enough to follow her everywhere. She stayed mostly the same. She sometimes groomed herself, changing the little fur she had before she left the house, but she was always her. The love of my life.

Love was good to me. I saw others like me through windows, prisoners to their humans, while Love took me on our daily adventures. I saw their longing when Love talked to me about her day, while they were ignored by humans talking into their small noisy blocks. I was lucky.

Then came Him. He talked lower than Love, but his spine was never straight. He smelled different than us, like most people did. I despised how his scent stayed even after he left. It marked the couch, the bed, the air. Didn’t he know that air belonged just to Love and me?

She started going on more walks with Him and fewer with me. We still had our daily ones, but she began staring and smiling at the box more than she ever did before. Maybe this was my punishment for pitying those window prisoners. The Creator sure had a funny way of humbling you.

Though my heart broke, I sucked it up. Love was happy — truly happy — and if I loved her as much as I said I did, how could I begrudge her that? I made peace with being the third in my own home. I showed Him my belly to let him know he had won. I would share my Love.

Him became Us, and I started to tolerate him and sometimes almost enjoyed him. He played with me in ways Love didn’t — wrestling, running, lifting me up and calling me “Bubba,” “Wacko,” “Hey, Yo.” He wasn’t the brightest; he never remembered my name. But we don’t choose who we get to love, so I didn’t judge Love.

At the end of the day, we would all cuddle on the couch and watch the big loud box on the wall. I would rest my head in Love’s lap while she rested her head on his shoulder. I would never admit this, but I was grateful for Him on those nights. I slept peacefully, knowing he would protect her. It was nice to have help watching over her.

I wished it could have stayed like that forever.

His visits grew farther apart. When he did come over, they didn’t laugh or do the things they used to do. That made Love sad though she didn’t say so. She missed being outside; she also didn’t like being a prisoner. The little box he used to leave on the counter never left his hands anymore. He stared at it while Love stared at him.

She stopped grooming. Stopped eating. Some days she barely moved. We slept on the couch a lot, though I didn’t know why; it was lumpier than our big bed. She would wake up, feed me, take me out for a few minutes, then crawl back under the blanket. When I tried to nudge her for attention, she whispered, “I can’t right now. I’m sorry,” in a voice that cracked. Sometimes she cried after, telling me she was sorry she was a bad mommy. I stopped asking so she wouldn’t feel that way.

One day when he came over, Love tried to play with his little box too. He growled like I had never heard him before. He didn’t want to share it. He got louder and louder when Love wouldn’t stop, until he yelled so loud that she trembled. He walked toward her with a look in his eyes like he wanted to eat her. I didn’t like that, and I showed him with my own growl. Love came to me and told me she was okay, but I didn’t believe her. I could smell her sticky fear. He left, but I didn’t sleep that night. I was back to solo guard duty.

He didn’t come back. Love cried a lot the first couple of days, but soon after she decided it was time to get off the couch. The first thing she did was change her fur to a color closer to my brown than her black, which flattered me. After that, the adventures began again. We went on hikes, to the beach, and ate ice cream on the porch. We watched sunsets, swam, and ran further than we ever had before. Friends who had stopped coming over visited us again. Love laughed and cried with them. They held her in ways I wished I could.

If I could speak human, I would have thanked them and begged them to never leave her alone again. Instead, I licked their faces and offered them bones. They never chewed on them, but I sensed we had an understanding.

Weeks passed. I began to forget Him, and I hoped so did Love.

Then on an especially hot night, as I lay my head on her chest, soothed by her beats, I heard footsteps walking up to the front door. That’s when his smell hit me.

He was back.

I ran to the door ready, a low grumble in my throat.

Love glanced at me as she walked to the door.

The coward hadn’t knocked yet.

She looked through the hole, and I heard her heartbeat quicken. She stood there, not moving, just like I sensed him doing on the other side.

A sharp sound hit the door. I barked just in case she hadn’t heard it — my poor Love didn’t have hearing as good as mine.

She opened the door. He stood there with flowers and the special treats she never let me eat.

“Hi,” he said.

“What are you doing here?”

I tried to wedge myself between them, just so he knew who was boss, but Love pulled me inside. She went outside, closing the door between us. I hated that. She needed me. Why would she do that?

I listened hard, twisting my ears just so. I would break this door down if he touched her, and this time even Love couldn’t stop me from hurting him.

“Wacko is really mad at me, huh?” he said.

“What are you doing here?” she repeated.

“I came to tell you I’m sorry. I was an idiot.”

“And that makes everything you did okay?”

“No, of course not, but we can’t just throw this all away because of a mistake?”

“A mistake? You call months of ignoring me, being horrible to me, and lying to me a mistake?”

“I know, I know. I fucked up.”

Why was Love talking to this man? I could smell his sour intentions through the door. I worried she wouldn’t smell it too and invite him back into our home. I let out a warning rumble.

“I’m okay,” she said to me through the door.

“You didn’t just fuck up. You chose to hurt me, and then when I called you out on it, you projected and got so aggressive that my dog thought you were going to hurt me.”

“You know Wacko is sensitive. We were all just heightened.”

“We were not heightened. You were. You scared me, and I will never trust you again.”

I panted in pure happiness, a little drool dripping onto the floor.

“So that’s it?” he said.

He really wasn’t the brightest.

“That’s it,” Love said, letting herself back in. She lingered for a second, and my heart squeezed, thinking she was wavering.

“And his name isn’t Wacko,” she continued. “It’s Shadow.”

She slammed the door in his face, and we never saw Him again.

I had never been prouder of Love than I was that day.