A dogged love of domesticity
He’s quiet. He’s very, very quiet. His absolute favourite activity is standing still. He’ll stand and stare at a plain white wall for half an hour as if it’s the very most interesting thing in the whole world. And then, when he’s finished doing that, he’ll potter off and find another one to stare at.
He follows you around the house like a polite but slightly annoying guest who feels he ought to help but can’t quite summon the confidence to offer. He wanders around tentatively, as if he’s never had the run of a whole house before, as if he can’t quite believe in all this space, all these stairs, all these (fascinating) white walls.
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He acts like he can’t afford to take anything for granted, as if there has to be a catch, a snag, a price. He acts like he can’t quite believe his luck and is just waiting to have the rug pulled from under his four furry feet. He’s only a dog but I’m startled to find he breaks my heart
