Photo by Kimberly Meadowlark, courtesy of Jordan LaHaye
Pictured: Harley, perpetually settled at our heels
My routine with Harley goes like this: Around 7 am, 7:30, I’ll receive a gentle, polite nose-nudge accompanied by a deep sigh. Fifteen minutes pass, and a tiny little lick will be bestowed upon my hand or my foot. Then she’ll stand up on the bed, shake her ears out, jump off the bed, then back on, then back off, then back on. I guess it’s time to get up anyway.
Before my feet hit the floor, she’s down the hall to the back door, then back to me, then back to door while I go to the restroom and search the house for my shoes. When I finally turn the knob, she squeezes through the door’s crack before it's wide enough for her to even fit, and races straight to her duck. This thing—a chewed up, beakless, rubber duck meant to resemble a real one in size and weight—is her *FAVORITE THING*. She grabs it in her mouth, shakes it around, and practically pirouettes her way to our fetch spot. After about fifteen minutes of “Heel, watch, go,” we’ll go back in—her panting ferocious, her giant tongue practically dragging on the floor. She’ll settle on the floor of my office, right where my feet go. Time to start the day.
I’ve always considered myself a cat person. Cats don’t smell—they even clean themselves. They love you, but they also have a funny sort of independence that I’ve always enjoyed observing. You don't have to take them everywhere with you. They’re potty trained. They’re tiny and fluffy and snuggly. And until now, if I were to ever get a dog I would have said I wanted a small yappy one, an inside dog. Tiny and fluffy and snuggly. Labrador retrievers—the dogs hunters use, sleek and short haired and bursting with energy, often kept in giant kennels in people's backyards—were not on my radar.
But in the months after my fiancé Julien got Harley last year, a tiny—borderline miniature—chocolate with a funny upturned tail that made her undesirable to the breeders she originally came from, I slowly started to understand the hype. Visiting on the weekends, the two of us got to know each other. I quickly became attuned to the ways she needs to burn her insatiable energy, how she doesn’t like crowds and how children frighten her, how she prefers hugs far more than belly rubs. She learned quickly that Julien and I were a pair, and still hates when we aren’t in the same room together, walking from room to room to check on each of us. She's learned that I am far more likely to play with her in the house than he (the big boss man—"Harley, that's not polite!") is, and that I let her sit on the couch when he’s not looking. She knows that when I lean into her face, I want a kiss—but just a little one, not too slobbery. And she's learned that I love to snuggle, and even though she doesn’t, she’ll often stay spooned with me until I fall asleep.
In the past few months, now relocated and working from home, Harley and I have spent most hours of most days together. While I work, she sleeps and smiles at me. Around noon, she ensures I take a break, bringing her out for fetch again. When I get up to grab something, to use the restroom, or just to stretch—she follows. In the midst of so much larger worldwide chaos, and plenty of personal change, she’s been such an anchor—literally never leaving my feet, never faltering, affirming me with such boundless unconditional love just for being here, with her.
