Being

You open the door and a vague chill hits you. He is there. Lying at your doorstep. You wonder when he came. You walk the few notches upto him. Look down. He is there, lying in all his doggie bliss. You put your knees to the cold cement floor and continue to stare at the life it holds. Reach out for his head, wonder what he dreams of. Run your hand all over his face, touch his wet breathing nose. You try a silly thing you are capable of. You try to shake his hand when he is trying to dream. Take his paw in your hands. He dosent get up and bite your head like you might have if you were him.
Ah, he loves you.
You lie next to him. On a cold cement floor in flimsy bed clothes. He always listens. Reflects when you are morose, fills you with mad unprecedented thank you for being alive happiness when you are happy. Rubbing his doggy skin, you thought train halts. Your mind comes along to take a picture. To know you is to know warmth and being and life and togetherness. I love you.
You lie there, like that, for a while. And then get up. You have to leave him for now. To go on with life. Or something like it.