I stare up at the knotty pine ceiling in this sweet old cottage and see dog faces. There’s one that looks slap-happy. There’s one that’s long-faced. One that’s reproachful. Another, expectant.
Beez, of the expressive eyes and sense of things as they are. Beez, without layers of history, complexity, and interpretation, just pure emotion.
I see him lying on his bed, unmoving except for his eyes, missing nothing. I hear the tick-tick-ticking of his toenails on the pine floor. I see him looking out the screen door toward the grass, the pond, the sun and shadows on the distant hill. I see him lifting his nose to the wind.
I see Beez trotting down the lane between the cottage and the pond, tail swishing side to side. I see him fishing, ankle deep, in the shallows for pumpkin seed fish, pawing and pouncing, catching nothing.
I see Beez on top of the world—a flower-dotted high meadow with a 180˚ view of the mountains. Storybook clouds drift across the sky. Beez and I walk along with the wind whispering, the insects buzzing, the birds singing.