What the Dog Remembers

The dog does not remember your promotion. The dog does not remember your argument with your mother. The dog does not remember the thing you said that you wish you hadn't. The dog remembers: the sound of the leash. That's it. That click of metal, that tiny symphony that means the world is about to happen, and the dog's whole body becomes a question mark of joy. I want to live the way my dog hears a leash. All in. No context. No history of walks that were too short or weather that was wrong. Just: this one. This walk. This exact moment of being alive and moving forward and smelling absolutely everything. My dog forgives me before I've apologized. This is either stupid or enlightened. I've decided it's enlightened. My dog sits by the door at 5:17 every day— not because he can read a clock but because his body knows something that my body has forgotten: that the best part of any day is the part where someone you love comes home. I am trying to learn this. To sit by the door of my own life and wait for the good thing with the same faith that it will come. The dog is right. It always comes. The leash clicks. The door opens. And the whole world smells brand new.