There are times, if only for brief seconds, when I look at Duncan and I can still very clearly see the puppy he once was, in the shape of his head with the tall point on top, the way he raises his eyebrows and looks at me when I talk to him, or the wiggle of his hips when he walks, and especially when he does that thing he does every afternoon when I get home from work: jumping up on the bed and pushing his face against the comforter, first on one side, then the other, back and forth, ear flopping back and forth as he snorts and makes whiny little grunting noises, his paws splayed out in front of him, his back end up in the air, tail swishing.
On Friday, December 24th, 2004, Duncan was still relatively new to us when I wrote in my journal:I miss that puppy terribly, but the dog he has become is far more than I ever expected or ever thought I deserved.
He's adorable beyond words, this red little thing that's found its way into our lives. Somehow, the other night, he taught himself how to hug and kept climbing up behind me, one paw on each shoulder as he leaned his head into me. It was unexpected comfort and meant more because I'd just scolded him for biting me, a lesson in unconditional love.
He's three times as big as when he found us a month ago and will only get bigger. I like him this size though, when he can curl up on my lap like one of the cats, his bunny hanging from his mouth. It's a good thing he's so cute because at times his behavior can be anything but. But his amble is magnificent, and the little sniff and squat and spin and squat when he poops, and his soft voice, his big, strange paws and the slow, gangly way he uses them to climb onto the couch. He is as amazing to me now as he is challenging and I think we'll keep him.
I feel I can never do enough for him, like there's always more I can give him and teach him.
He is a beautiful boy and I've loved him since the moment I first saw him and he winked at me.