Most evenings when I'm getting dinner ready, this is my view from the kitchen:
This dog is 7 years old. He's an old, wise 7-year old. He was taken straight from his mother into our home. He knows me pretty well. He knows I'm not big into sharing. (With a dog, anyway.) It's few and far between when this old dog gets people-food from the kitchen. Occasionally he'll be invited in to "vacuum" the kitchen floor when I make a mess. It's certainly not a daily event. But this dog clings daily to the hope. The hope of dropped food. The hope of an invitation to partake of even a morsel of people-food. He makes those eyes look so innocent, so unaware of my ways, so pleading, so sweet, so hopeful. Sometimes it even works, because...well, just look at those hopeful eyes.
So yesterday I took this picture of him when he showed me those hopeful eyes. I rewarded those hopeful eyes with a blinding flash, that made him do this:
But he stayed there anyway. That sweet boy just may have hit the sweet spot of my heart and he just may have been tossed a hunk of chicken. And you know what that means: it means that tonight hope will continue to spring eternal, and it means I will have this same view when I make dinner.
He is a knucklehead. He sheds too much. He stinks too often. But I do love him. And I love his illustration of hope.