You could talk. And talk you did. When we used the word ‘walk’ – or spelt it out, even phonetically – ears would prick up, followed by an alert glance. Then up you’d get, rushing to the lead, expectant. Sometimes you seemed to know we were going when we had only thought about it – could you really read our minds?
You’d say sorry – by groveling, one shoulder to the floor, even rolling over onto your back at times.
You did that when you were pleased as well, squirming and wriggling with gentle pleasure.
Your enthusiasm, when we returned home, was violent. Shrieks of delight, screams of joy, vertically bouncing up and down. Rushing off to fetch your ‘baby’ – an ancient soft toy – or a ball, to show us.
The expressions on your face: puzzlement, embarrassment, amusement in your smile. Laughter. That lopsided grin as you sat, laughing, just so happy to be with us. We were yours.
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