One Voice

Sometimes, especially after long days and when the nights are dark and very cold, it's difficult knowing that once I finally get home I have to change my shoes and venture out once again, sometimes for more than an hour. As I lug my backpack up the breezeway I can often hear Duncan chirping at the door for me, doing the little dance he does, his Berry or his blue bone clutched in his mouth, his tail wagging and his back-end swaying side to side. Sometimes I pause, take a deep breath and visualize his joy and excitement at searching out the bunnies huddled under the trees or near the shrubs that grow along the edges of the building. I imagine the way he climbs the piles of snow along the parking lot which have been drudged up by the ploughs. I try to see these things to remind myself that his happiness brings me happiness. But tonight, as I listened to him, his nails dancing on the tiles on the other side of the door, his voice rising and falling in that bird-like chirrup of his, I realized that he's singing to me, welcoming me home with a song, and before I knew what I was doing, I slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob. He was on me in a flash, jumping and chirping, dancing and grabbing at the cuff of my shirt to guide me through the apartment.

I am lucky indeed and there was no need to convince myself I had to do anything. I get to do it.