But sometimes I look over and marvel that humans figured out how to live with fuzzy beings. I look over at her fuzzy face and realize we communicate all the time but we don't talk. That I've lived with this other entity for 6 years - structured my days around her, adapted to her, modified my own behaviors while I was trying to modify hers - without knowing what goes on in her brain. I mean, not really. Sure we communicate in gesture and look and body language... but it's two beings speaking two different languages. And I'm sure there are many things that simply don't translate.
When I hang out with my friends who are afraid of dogs, I'm actually reminded again that my puppy can seem terribly threatening. Her bark is pretty fierce. She actually does snap bones when she's given them, so her jaw is incredibly strong. She's fast too. Whip fast (when she wants to be). And still I'm not scared by her at all and I never have been. Ever. I put my head right down next to hers and play with her.
And so sometimes I'm made aware that those of us that have fuzzy friends who live with us, well, it's a kind of miracle. It's a miracle that my dog is excited when I'm excited (most of the time), and is happy to see me when I come home and sad that I leave. It's a miracle that she can tell me that she's hungry, and thirsty, and bored. It's amazing that we trust these creatures to cuddle with (and doubly amazing that they want to cuddle with us). It speaks to something amazing not just about human experience, but about lived mammal experience, has to do with love. I love her. So completely and utterly and totally and it makes my heart feel full. Even when I'm cleaning up her poo, or trying to get her to be quiet, or cleaning up after the aforementioned hair, I love her. But still. Pretty weird that can happen, isn't it?
also posted to katekat on dreamwidth | you can reply here or there