always within earshot
I’ve had my dog, Nissa, for ten years.
Since she was a puppy, she’s been the one I talk to when I don’t feel like talking to anyone else.
I’ll sit there and tell her everything. Most of the time I’m pretty sure she’s asleep, but if I get up and move to another room, she’s right behind me. Always close enough to hear me. It’s like she knows she needs to be nearby, just in case.
For a long time, I thought she was just listening for food. If it was something she was allowed to eat, I always paid the “Nissa tax.” I figured that was the deal.
But lately, life’s been heavy. Mentally, I’ve been in a rough spot. A lot more time stuck in my own head at home.
And she seems to know that too.
She’s been trying harder to lay on me or press up against me, even though she’s not supposed to be on certain furniture. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and realize she’s quietly made her way to the foot of the bed instead of sleeping in her spot in the corner.
I think she knows when something’s off with me. I don’t know how else to explain it. Physical touch has always calmed me, and it feels like she understands that in her own way.
When I’m awake, she’ll lay on me and I’ll tell her what’s been going on. No fixing it. No advice. Just listening. As I’m writing this, she’s right here.
I’m not saying it fixed anything.
But it helped. Enough to take the edge off.
And sometimes I wonder how many times that mattered more than I realized. How many moments where that edge being dulled kept me from saying something I couldn’t take back, or making a decision that would’ve sent my life in a different direction. How much of my overall trajectory might be better just because she was there, quietly absorbing things when I needed somewhere safe to put them.
Enough for me to start thinking about how long I’ve had her, and how much of my life she’s quietly been part of. Ten years of marriage. Three kids — 9, 7, and 3. Job changes. Different versions of me. She’s been there for all of it.
That’s when it hit me how much healing she’s probably given me over the years without me ever really noticing. Or thanking her for it.
So now I’m sitting here with her leaning into me, realizing that one day this won’t be the case. And I don’t like sitting with that thought for too long.
I just hope she knows she’s done enough.
And that I’ve appreciated her, even when I didn’t know how to say it out loud, or who I’d be saying it to someday.
Because one day,
I’ll be talking into the quiet —
and she won’t be there physically to listen.
