Bronnie sometimes acts like she doesn’t want to get petted. She sits by herself in a pretty satin pillow outside, blonde fur glinting red and gold in the sun, a warm smell of corn chips around her, as dog paws are fritos-like when heat is applied to them. She’s standoffish, a little bit cold, a little bit old, incapable of becoming the puppy battering ram of need that the Chihuahua is when being deprived of slavish attention.
If you want to pet bronnie, you have to seek her out. She doesn’t beg for it with a whine or with her eyes. She stays in her corner, but inside, I know, she waits.
Because as soon as you pet her, she practically falls apart. Her eyes roll back in deep gratitude, and she takes in a huge breath like she’s breathing you in, and you feel the two cool jets of air coming out of her snout, little streaming thank yous. Her dog heart is beating fast and wanting the moment to never end, and she will gently hold your hands in between her strong front legs, with worn and dusty paws. She will lean on you will all her body weight and crush her soft head into yours and show you how happy she is and glad she is and it is the best of her and she wants you to never forget.