I’ve already used this blog to record some thoughts about having added my dog, India, to my life; a special focus of gratitude.

She has helped me make regular walks part of my daily routine.  She has taught me about the virtue of having a short-term memory; about starting each day with enthusiasm (after all, it’s new, right?) and about not holding a grudge. She’ll greet me warmly when I come home even after I withheld a treat earlier in the day.

She constantly teaches me about non-verbal communications, even though I can’t always figure out why she decides to bark.

Lately, she’s been demonstrating a level of empathy I wish more humans could command.

Since before the first of the year, I have not been feeling well.  I had a bad cough that, while lessening in severity and frequency, has managed to stick with me.  About two weeks ago, I also started to have pain in my lower back and left hip area.

I don’t know if the problem started from pulling a muscle when I coughed, or if I stood in front of my standing desk incorrectly, or if my respiratory infection traveled to affect my piriformis muscle, or what, but It has been painful to walk, and even more painful to descend stairs.

I can’t forego my three-a-day walks with my pooch, but some days, my dog-walking represents most of my physical activity.  Even when hanging around the house, I try to cut down the number of times I will visit the kitchen from my living room couch during evening TV time.  I have been moving around gingerly, for sure.  Infrequently as possible.

India knows something is off.

She has gone through periods before where she will follow me around closely, like I might disappear if I slipped into another room.

She’ll stretch out on her side for hours when I’m in my office working on the computer.  She’ll also drop her green ball in front of me when I’ve given up on locating it after losing interest in a game of Go Fetch; ever aware of the importance of keeping me engaged.

But her attention these past few weeks has been different.  Less urgent. Gentler. I don’t know if I can say thoughtful, but I do feel like she is trying to read me, what level of activity I can handle.

I might decide to lie down in the afternoon, whether for a nap or just to get off my feet.  She’ll follow me.

Although only about 24 pounds, I don’t pick her up.  She does not like it.  Yet, I can tell that she wants to be as close to me as possible.

Somehow, she flies up over the foot of my bed and tentatively pads her way forward until she finds a place by my side.

She’ll walk in a tight circle in the middle of my bed then nuzzle up by my side.  Sometimes, she’ll lie on her back, almost begging me to rub her belly, making me forget my pain, and sometimes, she’ll tuck her legs underneath her and just stretch out next to me.

I’ll run my hand through her wavy fur.  It’s too long, but considering the cold weather, I won’t have it cut for a couple months.

She lets me run my fingers over her skin.  I think she enjoys it. I know she enjoys the attention. She doesn’t move.  She stirs with concern when I go on a coughing jag then settles back down when I get quiet again.

I think she knows I find peace in her proximity, especially when I’m not feeling well.  It’s great to be able to lie down and grab a handful of curly fur or puppy butt.

If I could only teach her how to make chicken soup…

I listen to her heavy and regular breathing when she joins me in bed. I take enormous comfort from her presence.  I might laugh at the irony of having a king-sized bed while I feel almost pushed to one edge because of where my black and white fur ball decides to claim as her space; she who answers to me calling her name only twenty percent of the time.

Sleeping with someone who loves you unconditionally, especially when you’re not feeling well — no matter the species – is no small thing.