I left work early today, sick, dizzy, wanting to lie down, but even before I reached my house, I already heard Yoda's cries and eventually found her by the gate, waiting for someone to open it for me. That is to say she knows it's me even before my feet reach the inclined pavement of the courtyard, even before my fingers reach the doorbell, even before I impatiently walk to the right side of the gate, and peek through the holes to see if anyone is going to come get me.
When I finally walk in, she jumps at me–long fingernails to my crochet sweater, teeth that are getting too big to my skirt; a bouncy, little dog trying to greet me in every way she can. She goes crazy when I hand over a toy I picked up at a toy store, and I take that chance to greet my calm, resigned, and very behaved Hutch. And then the three of us make our way to the other side of the courtyard: me, Hutch, and now Yoda–her brand new toy in tow.
Raising a rescue, one that is anxious and energetic, is a handful. Most days, it's a chore. I hate to say it, but most days, I miss the quiet of just having Hutch inside the house. Calm Hutch. Behaved, gentle, obedient Hutch. But on the days I (literally) need the extra energetic pick-me-up, the snoring companion, or the one that chases after flies (instead of butterflies), and cockroaches (instead of birds), I turn to Yoda. Energetic, bright, bubbly Yoda. Yoda, her sad-eyes, and lopsided smile. Without a doubt, she does the job.
Sometimes, I catch myself thinking that she reminds me of someone. She reminds me of someone I once knew. And then I think of Tiny. And I think that he must be happy now. And I think he would've loved Yoda. He probably does.
When I saw Yoda, something in my gut knew I was going to take her home. I'm happy I did. A little bit of love goes such a long way, and in the short amount of time that I've known her and she's known me, I know that in that little heart of hers, she loves me. And I know she knows that I love her. And I know that for this tiny dog, that will always be enough.