my husband, Paul, is trying to tell me something. He keeps commenting on how sweet our Yorkshire terrier is because when Paul comes home from his 12 hours shift at the hospital, Binx always greets him at the front door with a shoe, or a sock, or a flip flop.
Now, mind you, this is indigenous to the breed. They carry something to you in order to greet you. But still it is cute and out of three dogs in our house, Binx is the only one who wakes up and runs to greet the master. Because of this inbred ritual, Binx is the favored one to be allowed to ride along on outings which do not involve leaving him in the truck during warmer weather...
He gets to go!
He loves to go!
But this got me to thinking. Doesn't Paul know I love him more than life itself. Just because I don't greet him when he comes in at eleven o'clock at night is no reflection of the dedication I feel in my heart? Isn't that what I'm showing him when I make nice dinners, wash his laundry, make decisions not to buy myself something I don't really need, so the money is there for his hobby/projects?
Perhaps, those things are too much behind the scene and are not as noticeable as Binx's excited tail wagging, nose bumping, shoe carrying exhibition of love and welcome.
So the other night, when I heard Paul open the front door, I put down my Kindle, put on my glasses, slipped out of bed, walked into the living room...
and handed him my shoe.
I hope he felt the love.