Touched

I spent my Saturday at the dog shelter-yes, again. That was my 5^th visit. I suppose at some point I’ll stop counting. Wasn’t I supposed to develop some resistance by now? But then again if I ever do I’d be really worried. It was again physically overly demanding-there isn’t a muscle in my body that doesn’t hurt. But yesterday was very stressful in an emotional way as well. I was given that young dog-quite small, with orange fur and golden eyes. He looked sad. I was told he had attitude problems, that he’s known to bite and that it was a good idea if I didn’t touch him. I was just about to take him outside when a rain began. And it felt so hard that I had to remain inside for some 15 minutes. Not to touch the dog I’m in charge of? Yeah, right. I sat on the floor and pulled him closer. I ran my hand down his back and I started to talk to him in a caressing voice. A couple of minutes later he was in my lap with his head on my shoulder; I was hugging him and he was hugging me back-cheek to cheek until it stopped raining. Then we went out and he behaved perfectly, constantly turning his head to look me in the eyes. We made 3 rounds and when it was time to return him in his cage as if he knew because as I kneeled he tried to crawl into my lap again-I had to take him in my arms and he snuggled his head up to mine. It was heartbreaking.  

And in the puppy section I saw that black and white puppy that looked exactly as Vincent did when he was brought to me. I cried, of course.