We had a terribly terribly sad day recently when our lovely dog, Itsabella Slagle, ran off through a poorly-latched garden gate. She was gone for twenty-six hours. Twenty-six long hours. Which meant that we spent a long, sleepless night looking at her empty bed, and a long, helpless day posting signs, praying to St. Anthony, and thinking about all the things that make our little mutt so special.
Bella, who is always right there watching over Tilly, wanting to comfort her, waiting to lick her feet.
Bella, who just yearns for five seconds alone with my nursing pillow so that she can pull all the stuffing out of it.
Bella, who lies in Tilly's doorway, knowing she isn't allowed in the room, but inching further and further in when she thinks I'm not looking.
Bella, the sheep mauler.
Bella, with the softest chin.
Bella, who claims the area under the sofa as her den, and loves to lie either with just her head poking out, or just her tail.
Bella, who always knows when you just need a little cuddle, and comes to lie her head on your feet.
Luckily, she came back to us -- exhausted, thirsty, and with a belly full of the cheap dog food that makes dogs very gassy -- but happy and safe. She'd been picked up not far from our house, had spent the night with college students, and their pitbull and mastiff, and had probably had the time of her life while we were worrying!