Oh you with the endless minutes of scratching; at yourself, at things, at the door, waiting to be let in. And who could deny you? You stop when we look at you, our eyes meet, and you with those big inviting eyes, and the ears slightly pulled back in hope, stare, waiting, and then our will gives way and you bound inside, tail wagging in triumph. Yes, you know the way to the heart, you clever thing.
Now you've done yourself wrong, and you lie on the rug, head resting on paws, and your eyes close in fatigue. But not all is good, despite your unchanged behaviour; still you perk your head up at the jingle of keys, or the mention of a walk, and still you bound to the door, and dart between our legs, more deftly than a butterfly among leaves, but there is physical evidence to say that all is not well. You've done something to yourself and we cannot fathom what.
It is true that I worry unnecessarily on occasion, and I hope this is the case this time, because as resolutely as I said that you would be ok, my heart said it with less certainty and with more hope. Others have survived worse, I'm sure, but the problem lies in that we do not know what you have done. All I know is that should you sleep tonight, I hope that you awake on the morrow. Our souls cannot exist in the unnerving quiet which would descend without your presence.