You move through the day editing yourself for everyone else, trimming your words, smoothing your face, trying to be some acceptable version of a person. Your dog does not participate in that performance. They inhale the uncut version of you: the fear you swallow, the joy you downplay, the restless nights you never mention. To them, every shifting note in your scent is a new chapter, not a flaw.
When you come home exhausted, they already know what kind of day walked in the door. When grief clings to your shirt, they press closer, not to fix you, but to be with the truth of you. Their love is not for your mask, your status, or your best angle. It is for the entire chemical storm of your existence. You don’t have to explain yourself. You’ve already been understood.
