I have a black Lab called Rhoda.  I am her person and she is mine.  Sometimes it shames me how much I love her.  After all, I have two sons and a husband of almost 30 years.

“Go on, girl,” I said as I let her out through the sliding glass back door. My fenced-in yard was bursting with flowers.  

Val was away on a trip looking for work. Aaron had recently moved out. Oliver was at his job at the sneaker store.

When I am alone, my body takes on a different form. Everything loosens.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and took my coffee from the stove.  I scanned the yard for Rhoda and didn’t see her.  

“Where is that girl?” I said aloud to myself, as I sometimes do.

I stepped outside in my slippers and saw that the wooden gate was wide open and a truck was rumbling down the street. In an instant I saw black. I  It was as if my vision were dissolving. My body was electric.

“Rhoda!” I screamed.  It was guttural and all-consuming, a desperate sound.  

I turned my head slightly to the left, my vision returning, and there she was, bounding toward me, all alert and knowing.  I gulped the air and swung my arms around her neck, kissing her.  I was gasping and sweaty.  My face felt distorted by grief.  

We both went inside.  I sat on the couch, her paws in my lap, and waited to return to myself.  Rhoda seemed to be waiting as well. I sipped my coffee, my breath no longer halting, and shamelessly hugged my girl.

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