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Whenever I come home, he is the first to greet me, wagging his tail hundred to dozen.
I sit by the piano with my fingers seemingly creating music on their own, music that I can never play twice, music that transcends the little world I live in. He sings along, not listening to humans who might think the raucous noise is anything but Beethoven. He believes it’s beautiful and that’s all that matters.
He jumps up, gorgeous large eyes flitting from my lap to the screen where I write about difficult political issues and send important emails. He dozes off to sleep, little thoughts running wildly, fluffy ears staying alert, perking up when the autumn wind blows. He never lets little joys go missed.
When he comes with me to class, everyone says he is the most adorable puppy in the world. He knows, but he won’t look at himself in a mirror.
Late at night, when I’m still working, he sits with me, yawning sweetly, and cuddling in the blankets when I finally go to bed. I may toss and turn, worried about the world and its problems, but even after a hard day, he sleeps fitfully.
I wrote those words about Rishi, nine years ago, soon after we got him. Today, he has come with me to work, lent his name to me and my two coauthors…
