When Bugsy came into my life, I was done with people. I mean done. The kind of done that settles over you like a weighted blanket soaked in cement, slow, crushing, and immovable. Life had bruised me in quiet ways, and illness had backed me into a corner I wasn’t sure I’d ever crawl out of. I’d started to believe maybe I was better off alone, not in a noble, self-actualised way. In a survival-mode, “don’t talk to me unless you’re bringing coffee or morphine” kind of way.
Then came Bugsy.
He didn’t barrel into my life like a rom-com meet-cute. I saw his tiny, petrified little puppy self on a Facebook post by a rescue organisation, and it became my mission to bring him home. He watches me with these brown eyes that pierce my soul, eyes that see past the bravado and into whatever mess is sitting behind my ribs. I didn’t expect to trust him this much, let alone bond with him in any significant way. I didn’t want to trust anyone. I got him, brought him home, and was determined to change his life. Make it better. Make him feel loved, safe, happy. Unexpectedly, he changed my life too.
I was in the garden one day when he started acting strangely. Fixated. Alert. Barking. Obsessively circling a flower pot. I told him to leave it, probably three times. He didn’t. He just kept glancing at me with those eyes, like: “Hey idiot. Listen.” So finally I moved the pot.
Snake.
Long, coiled, very real. Bugsy didn’t panic. He just kept barking obsessively. He watched. Guarded. Waited for me to catch up.
From that day on, I promised him I’d listen to him.
Bugsy is part border collie, which means he has endless energy and a pathological need to herd things, including me. We walk a lot, or we used to, before my body slowed me down. But one day on our usual trail, he stopped dead. Refused to go further. I looked around, saw nothing. Called him, begged him, tried every command in the book. Nothing. He just stood there, ears back, eyes locked on something I couldn’t see.
So I trusted him. I turned around, and he followed me calmly back to the car.
To this day, I don’t know what was up that trail, but I know Bugsy knew. And that was enough.
He watches over me when I’m not well. Not the way people do; awkward and unsure. He watches like a sentry. Like someone who’s already planned ten exits and knows how to use them. He presses his body up against mine when I’m shaking in pain. Licks my face when I cry. And then he leaves when I’m okay again. No neediness. No drama. Just presence.
He does this with other people too; sits beside the sick, rests at the feet of those who are hurting. He knows. He always knows.
If Bugsy could talk, I think he’d probably ask for more peanut butter treats. But I also think he’d say, “You can trust me. I’ve got you.”
And I believe him. Completely. No hesitation, no conditions. Just trust.