You don’t even want a dog. You come from a long line of cat people, and you intend to stay that way. Then out of the woods scrambles shy, scrappy Clover. You shoo him off, but he runs circles around you. For months, you deny he’s been dumped and you search for the home he abandoned. For weeks, you encourage others to take him. Meanwhile, you’ve given him a bath and a name, ordered a case of chicken, and watched him settle onto the mat outside your door every night. After countless walks, his joy becomes your joy. His presence at your side in the garden, his insistence that you stop and give him a belly rub, his fierce loyalty, become the fabric of your life, and there’s no way you’re going back. (How did you live without a dog before?) When at last you admit he’s yours, your inner German housewife insists, There’s no way he’s coming inside. But he squeezes in, and he exudes such coziness and security that the extra sweeping of dirt and fur seems a worthy price.
from The Bark http://bit.ly/2X8hNrn http://bit.ly/2EqcT1u
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