They say that dogs, lacking the ability to form abstract thought, don’t really have genuine emotions. Anyone who owns a dog knows that isn’t quite true, but I can go them one better: today, when Chopin the dog saw us for the first time after his Rimadyl overdose, his ecstasy was the purest I’ve ever seen in any living creature. That includes the winning of National Championships, the reuniting of war-torn families, and the impenetrable, soul-encapsulating charge of orgasm. Put simply, I don’t know if any other creature is capable of such happiness. After a two days of vomiting, having blood taken, getting an IV in the throat, and a diet of activated charcoal (whatever that means), Chopes saw us and did eleven airborne pirouettes and a half-gainer. It was so intense that the entire emergency room stopped and emitted the subconscious throaty “awwww” of seventeen pet lovers all wishing their pet could possibly feel the same. Even the bird owners, who are really weird people.
Tonight he sleeps safe and sound at the foot of our bed, even touching us as he snores, something his control issues would not have allowed even last week. Little guy, it’s good to have you back.