You've seen me. Heard me. Rolled your eyes at me. You've wanted to gag. And you've wished you could tell me to stop, stop, stop.

I love my dog, crazily love my dog.

I talk to her all the time, calling her ridiculous names that somehow in that moment I don't care if anyone else hears. Bucket of love. Pumpkin cakes. I lay attuned with one ear at night the way any mother would with a child, and if I hear a cough or a whimper, I'm leaning forward in bed, on the alert, listening, if I'm not already headed down to where she sleeps downstairs to see if she's okay. I make her meals with chicken, brown rice, a vegetable, ground flax seed, egg shells, nutritional yeast, fish oil, garlic, vitamin e oil, and an occasional dash of green powdered super food. I think it's healthy, but the production I go through just about makes my husband sick.

I don't think I'd love her as much if she wasn't a rescue. She's from Louisiana, a Hurricane Katrina aftermath which gives me that much more of a picture of the disaster our little lab mix survived. She's a "hood" dog as my son says, and I respect her for her strength to survive living on the street and to emerge with the ability to be friendly, and to trust people. Neither of those traits are as automatic with her as it is with most labs. When she comes to be petted, she often walks alongside, then backs closer, giving me her butt so she can keep watching out in front for anything that might come at us as a threat. She demonstrates literally over and over "I trust you to have my back," and that makes mush ball me melt.

She is so many things I aspire to be: energetic, thoughtful, attentive, friendly, strong, enthusiastic, in—the-moment. As the new year unfolds, she's an ever present role model, and by far the best listener in the house, hands down. Or would that be paws?

I didn't think I could love her anymore. But I realized in these past couple cold weeks, I think I love her more in the winter. When I come in from running errands in the frigid weather, I love finding her feeling safe and relaxed, spread out on the living room couch where she can see out front and side windows. I kneel down and snuggle with her, put my face into her luxuriant tawny soft fur (kudos to that vitamin e oil), drape my body over her incredibly inviting warmth, and I'm more infatuated than ever. I can imagine cave dwellers or early settlers finding their dogs more inviting than a high-maintenance fire or an unpredictable spouse. Hmmm, maybe I can imagine that happening to me on an occasion or two.

Dog. Totally welcoming. Totally accepting. Totally warm. Totally love. Man's best friend indeed. Woman's, too.