My beautiful little Soda, the only dog I know who has bad dreams. He howls something horrific ("aaaaaAAOOOoooooooo...!!!"), so loudly, so frightened, that in the past I have leapt out of bed in the middle of the night and run downstairs and outside, fearing the worst, fearing vicious neighbouring dogs, or kangaroos, anything...only to find Soda looking up at me with his big black eyes, bewildered as to why I'm standing there watching him sleep, totally unaware of the din he was causing.
My beautiful little Soda, who I take on runs with me sometimes and who I trip over and who cannot ever keep up with me, panting and heaving and stopping dead still in the middle of the footpath, refusing to run any further.
My beautiful little Soda, who is so completely dud at everything except knowing what to do to cheer me up at any time at all. He curls up in a huge ball of fluff over my feet, peacefully resting his beautiful dopey head on his lion paws on my legs, nestling into my body with his own dirt and mud-covered one.
My beautiful little Soda, who has nothing going around in his brain except thoughts of food, mud and his toy Rat, but who does no wrong to anyone at all (except maybe my friend Erin who he has some weird issues with, sorry Erin). He is a saviour in trying times, with his heavy head, his huge paws, his constantly wagging tail.
I woke up this morning to a heavy heart. Dragging myself out of bed at some ungodly hour, a mud-SATURATED Soda batted his tail hard against my leg, looking up at me with his gorgeous eyes like saucers. I just laughed at the funny little creature before me, and somehow it seemed that the steps it would take to get from here, standing in front of my cabinet swallowing tablets in a quiet kitchen, to the end of the year in one piece seemed just that little bit easier to take.
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