Before my newest pup loved me, I could yell at her and she would not respond at all. She would keep chew-chewing or sleeping or noting her paws. I could make high pitched sounds of leaking cute, and she did not care that they were for her. Her tail barely gave a waggle.
Before we knew each other so well– before she could hear the first jingle of the leash and know that it was time for a walk, before I could tease her until she would bark once at excitement, before she knew what too far was– she did nothing. She bumped around on her own. All I could do, and she couldn’t care.
Now, after she found out that I loved her, it is all she can do but to respond to my movements. And when I yell at her, she is in the worst life. When I make high pitched sounds of leaking cute, she bops her front paws up and down like she will explode. She knows, now, that every movement is a movement for her. This is how I know that she knows that I love her.
It is for this reason that I wonder whether I love God, or s/he loves me, at all.
For all this noise, I cannot tell that any of it is for me.