Misty

Misty the dog peeked into the TV room while I was winding down this evening. She spends almost every moment in the office closet. I gather she’s around 8 years old. Originally from Costa Rica where the locales used to shoot her full of bullets as a sort of sport, my friends Alex and Charles rescued her when they lived there. One ear is cocked crooked. Her eyes dart back and forth—treading out of the safety space is a big deal. She looked over at me, but I was told not to stare because it makes her nervous. I kicked back on the sofa and flipped the television channels. She took a few steps into the room and then turned around and left. Progress. Five minutes later she was back at the door. By this time I had curled up with some pillows. She checked behind her and then walked up to the couch. She jumped up and walked over—never making eye contact and put her front paws on my lap. I extended my hand slowly. She sniffed it, her eyes darting back and forth to see who or what if anything was in the room. I placed my hand on her head, slowly petting her. She adjusted herself. I traced her scars with my fingers. All I could think is how unbelievably cruel people can be. I spoke tenderly, “You’re such a good girl Misty. Good girl.” Misty began to soften although her hypersensitivity was still full on. She licked her lips a bit and edged herself even closer to me. Looking across the room to the door she decided to lay down. I ran my hand down the length of her body. Upon reaching her back thigh she lifted it up for me to pet her belly. I felt honored.