I love dogs. I wish I had a dog. I frequently (on a daily basis) ask Gary if we can get a dog, despite the fact that our building forbids them.
This morning on my walk to work, I saw a rather round man with a rather small dog. This dog was up on his hind legs, yapping his poor little heart out. Up the block, I saw a woman who matched the man rounding the corner, moving out of sight.
The man was repeating, "She's coming back, I promise! She is coming back! I promise!" in increasing urgency to the small yapping hound.
Being a dog must be like living in a constant state of Latino Soap Opera. The drama! The tears! The tearing at one's blouse, one's hair, the clawing of the hands in desperation!
I do not live in a Telenovella. I know with reasonable certainty that when I leave my house, it is not for the last time. I will probably be back within 10 hours or so. Though I am prone to whining when Gary leaves in the morning, it is less out of "MY LOVE! I WILL NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN! WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME! OLE!" and more out of "aaaaaaahhwww. If you're leaving for work this means that I have to get out of this warm, soft bed and also leave for work. Crumb."
On the other hand, when that roly-poly lady DOES come back,that dog will notice. He will not casually look up from the computer, acknowledge that the door has opened, and turn back to the computer. Oh, no. He will fling himself at her legs, chanting a constant doggy chorus of "YOU HAVE RETURNED TO ME! MY LOVE! YOU CAME BACK! I DIDN'T THINK I'D EVER SEE YOU AGAIN! YOU RETURNED!"
Might be nice to have a dog.