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.