Love stays, even when illusions don’t.
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Peter was quiet. He often kept to himself, but I knew that he carried something heavy in his heart. He never said what it was, but I could feel it; it was a shadow that followed him wherever he went. I wish I could chase it away for him.
I was his second pair of eyes. A nose that smelt what he couldn’t. Ears that heard the creaks behind doors that he couldn’t.
Then something began to change. I started to act funny. I knew that something was off; my tail refused to wag when I asked it to. I barked at the attic door–I just knew something was hidden. I could almost sink my teeth into it. I knew that Peter was ready to find it.
But he didn’t believe me. To him, I was just his dog–something to feed and pat, that he was responsible for. But I could see the way his eyes flickered when I nudged the drawer open. I knew I was getting to him.
He opened the drawer, and his face changed–I could see the utter surprise, the confusion. The locket his mother always wore. It was there, but it was empty. Broken. He held it in his hands. It had always been shattered, vacant. But a piece of his mother. His fingers brushed it, as though it had been waiting for a forgotten truth.
As he continued fumbling through the drawer, his fingers brushed against a simple, but curious box. Nondescript as it was, it was compelling–he picked it open with a nearby pin.
In it was a series of old photos and documents. As the photos spilled out, his face lost its colour. Each one was a silent accusation, showing Peter the father he barely knew–the older man tangled in a web of lies that shattered lives.
She had been a lady his mother had known all her life. Her confidante. They had been together when his mother was at work, unable to give his father the attention he needed, even when I was around.
Peter wasn’t the same after looking through those photographs. I could tell from the way he patted me, or walked me around the block–he just seemed–distracted.
Now, he doesn’t grip the leash so tightly. He still looks at his father’s photos, but at a man he never really knew. He’s hurt. But petting me is therapy. I could never use words–I only had my eyes, ears, and nose.
I never asked for thanks, but just being by his side helped him to face what he needed to. I was there through all the silence and pain.
His partner.
We’re watching the sunset from our backyard – me, with my head on Peter’s lap. He’s putting on his thinking cap — probably wondering why he never noticed the obvious.
Me? I only notice the well-deserved treats.
After all, I showed him that loving without strings means being there. The truth sits in the drawer, no longer a shadow, even if it’s not so tidy.
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