She simply was Dog. When she met her humans, they called her that. The humans moved so much and sensing that excited her. It got her moving, too. Her tail would not stop thumping and her legs would not stop walking. She followed them home.

Dog and her two humans went home as if they knew each other in all past lifetimes. They lived their lives tasting the flavors of what life had to offer. They had many outdoor adventures and, greedily, Dog devoured all these experiences. Because she could. She finally could.

Dog loved life. She didn't need to learn that, silly. Neither did the humans. They knew not only "how" in their minds. They loved life: breathed it, lived it, wore that love like a glove. Most importantly, Dog knew they all had something in common. They all shared that love freely, through laughter, dance, gritted teeth, and throes of grief. Being loved deeply always meant it was being shared.

They called her Dog and she let them, because Dog knew they loved her as she simply was. And their love was deep.

—

Dog passed years ago. I spoke to Dog in spirit. She still looked like herself and she was lounging in a great hall of the gods. The hall was grand and cavernous, supported by massive columns of stone. There were giant drums, too. Gods surrounded us but I was only allowed to see their feet, if gods had feet. Dog was in the middle of the hall, waiting for me, wearing her face with joy and wisdom. An old spirit, a brave spirit. She and I talked, while the giant gods listened.

I could not stop thinking about Dog last week, even though my session with her happened a while back. I dreamt about her in the same great hall, except she no longer looked like a dog. The drums were playing. I had to tell her humans. But they already knew. ♥