Lucy

Now that Felipe is away for a couple of weeks, Lucy and I spend even more time together than usual. Of course, there are our daily walks. But she also keeps me company while I do my yoga exercises on the terrace, lying in a patch of morning sun, occasionally opening one eye to check what I am doing. She sits under the table while I have breakfast and curls up at my feet when I write. We move through the day together.

 

I used to resist letting her sleep on the bed. But last night she stood beside it and looked at me in that sweet, imploring Lucy way. There was no way I could or wanted to resist. She clearly misses Felipe and wants some company at night. And, I realised, so do I.

 

She curled tightly against me, warm and soft, and after a while rolled onto her back, exposing her belly for me to stroke. Her paws hung loosely in the air. I could feel her breathing slow down.

 

This complete trust and surrender moved me. She feels safe enough with me to make herself entirely defenceless. I found myself strangely touched by the privilege of that.

 

And yet Lucy and I inhabit such different universes. On our walks she can spend minutes investigating a patch of pavement that tells me absolutely nothing. Her world is made of scents I cannot detect, just as migratory birds perceive the earth's magnetic field, bees see patterns on flowers invisible to us, and bats find their way through darkness by listening to echoes.

 

It makes me wonder about my assumption that the world I see is the world as it is. Clearly, it isn't. Lucy lives beside me in another version of reality.

 

And somehow, across those two different worlds, on these daily walks or curled up in bed, we find each other. Two bodies across species, making each other feel safe without a single word.