Dog Sleep
I love the way Ginger sleeps. She doesn't curl up into a little sleep nugget like most dogs, or stretch out like others. She spoons. Ginger's the only dog I've ever met who truly understand the mechanic of a good spoon, and seems to require it as much as we do. Overnight guests will attest to this - they'll fall asleep on the couch and wake up with a 90lb dog stretched the length of their body, her head shoving their arm into the appropriate hugging position, then sighing and settling in. It speaks volumes to her personality - Ginger is happiest when we're happiest, she's calm when we're calm, she's frantic when we're stressed out, she sleeps when we do, won't eat until we've already started. Sometimes I think Ginger understands love a whole lot better than any person I've ever met, which I know sounds cliche, but if you'd met her you'd understand. When I'm upset she crawls up next to me on the couch and silently sits with her head on my shoulder. When Jesse's upset, she sits 3 inches from him quietly staring straight ahead, not touching him but not moving, either. There's something to be said for simple understanding, for making up in intuition what you lack in language. Or maybe not letting language interfere with what you really know and have to say. When Jesse and I were first together, before we said I love you, we were so intensely honest about how we felt about each other. Long after I knew I loved him, after I had begun biting the words back when they almost popped out, I avoided saying it, because I knew those 3 tiny words would take place of all the real things we were already saying to each other - I'm happier when I'm with you, My life makes more sense with you in it, I want to touch you all the time, When you're sad I can't smile, When you smile I feel like I'll spill over. I'm glad we have Ginger. Even though, more often than not, we just say "I love you," we're reminded over and over again that words don't mean a whole lot. Spooning does.