I have a teddy dog named Micki. He’s been with me for ages, and I cuddle him every time I sleep. Over the years, Micki has seen a fair bit of my dreams and imaginings. He has shared in my joys and happenings. He has witnessed my tears and heartbreakings.
Micki is a faithful friend. He doesn’t judge me. He listens to me. His presence calms me. And I love how he smells, like home. Micki smells like I have come home.
But Micki has been losing weight. He is now probably only three-quarters or less than when we first met. I suspect my blood, sweat and tears have finally got to him. Micki is becoming frail and fraying at the edges.
Yet whenever I cry, he continues to hold me. And in times of fear, we hide together under the blanket. I count my breathing in sets of 2, 4, 8, 16, 32 until I am no longer hyperventilating.
And he whispers in my ear, “It’s ok. It’s all going to be ok.”