Hairy Manipulator

He sits just there.  He has placed himself with great precision directly before me.  If my eyes are open, regardless the turn of my face, he is most often dead center, but at least quite present in my peripheral vision.  (Unless I sit backwards on the couch, which I have considered.)

His steady gaze is a softened laser beam of asking, telling, and strategically requested pity. Like a tiny trembling soldier, he awaits any indication that soon, oh surely very, very soon, I will rise and give him nourishment and release him to Nature’s call.  He sits upright, straight and true, while bravely and slowly dieing of the worst case of anticipation he’s ever had since last night when he began expecting dinner.  And yet, on the very doorstep of death, dangling by his last frazzled nerve, he sits just there.   Determined, rigid, and shivering with explosive patience, he anchors himself to my conscience.  Steve, my tiny sentinel of hunger, angst, and bladder control.

Oh dog, if you knew Can Opener and Door Handle, you wouldn’t need me.