The Lean

The Princess who carried my Dads love

There is a particular kind of love that does not ask permission. It leans its weight into your leg and heart After my dad died twelve years ago, the house felt hollow in a way I didn’t know houses could feel. He used to greet me the same way on the phone:

“Hello Princess. How are you?”

No matter how old I was. No matter what I had done or not done. I was Princess. That June, I brought home a black lab. We named her Princess.

You can say it was coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence.

She was dramatic. Spoiled. Yappy. Whiny. Completely convinced her needs were urgent and should be met immediately. She whined for her own way. She announced her opinions loudly. She expected devotion. And she gave it back tenfold.

Princess had one signature move. She didn’t sit sweetly beside you. She didn’t gently nuzzle. She leaned full body, no hesitation straight into your leg. Sometimes so hard she nearly knocked you over. It was her way of loving.

And for eleven years, she was at my feet. When I was sick, she didn’t leave the room. When grief crept up on me especially in March she pressed herself against me like she was holding me upright. She had that uncanny knowing dogs have. The shift in breathing. The slump in shoulders. The silent ache.

Princess used to vacuum her food the second it hit the bowl. Except for one day the day I had surgery for a broken wrist. I fed her before I left that morning. When my friend Therese brought me home around 8 p.m., I was still woozy from the anesthesia but Princess was different. She ran around me in wide circles not her usual lean-in greeting, but something softer. Watchful. Almost careful. I made my way to the bedroom and she circled the bed again and again checking on me for a good five minutes. Then she jumped up at the end of the bed and sniffed me as if to make absolutely sure it was really me. I asked Therese to open the back door to let her out. But she didn’t run outside instead, I suddenly heard the crunch of kibble from the kitchen. She hadn’t touched her breakfast all day. She waited until she knew I was home safe.

This was the time I knew she didn’t replace my dad………she extended him……….. she became the physical weight of a love that had suddenly become invisible.

Twelve years ago today, my dad and I had our last phone conversation. A few hours later, after walking his dog Jessie, he had a heart attack. His anniversary is March 8. Princess left me on March 16 last year. This is my first March without her steady presence at my feet. And I won’t pretend it isn’t hard. Muscle memory still expects the lean. My nervous system still waits for the thud.

Now I have Rex, my goofy, brilliant border collie. His love is different. Lighter on his feet. Wide-eyed. Full of long walks and sharp turns and negotiated treaties involving treats. He doesn’t lean the same way he pounces but he still loves. Different dog. Different devotion. Same generous, open-hearted offering of fur and loyalty.

Grief has taught me something I didn’t know before, Love doesn’t replace. It layers. My dad called me Princess. My lab carried that name like a torch. My collie runs beside me now, teaching me new rhythms of joy. Somewhere in whatever mystery holds the people and the dogs we lose, I like to imagine my dad greeting her:

“Hello Princess. How are you?” And her nearly knocking him over.

And me, here, still loved by Rex.

I know I am not the only one who has felt a dog’s love extend beyond their fur, beyond their body, beyond even their years. Somewhere in the lean, the nudge, the way they just know, there is a thread connecting the living and the gone.

If you have a soul dog the one who held you, healed you, or simply made you laugh until your cheeks ached, I’d love to hear about them. Share a story, a memory, a move that only they could make. Let’s remember them together.

Because love, the kind that leans, doesn’t vanish. It lingers. It teaches. It carries us forward.