My Dog Always Has To Be Touching Me
Let me tell you about my dog, Barnaby. He's a good boy, a really good boy. But Barnaby has a … well, let's call it a unique personality trait. He’s a professional velcro dog. No, seriously. If there’s an inch of space between us, Barnaby seems to think the world is about to end. He needs to be touching me. At all times. It’s like he's got a built-in proximity sensor that screams, "ALERT! HUMAN IS GETTING TOO FAR AWAY!"
It starts the moment I wake up. Before my eyes are even fully open, there's usually a warm, furry weight pressing against my legs. Sometimes it's a gentle nudge of his nose, a soft sigh of contentment. Other times, it's a full-on, "GOOD MORNING! I MISSED YOU SO MUCH EVEN THOUGH YOU WERE LITERALLY RIGHT HERE AN HOUR AGO!" kind of scenario, complete with a happy thump-thump-thump of his tail against the bed frame.
Getting out of bed is an Olympic sport. Barnaby, bless his cotton socks, feels it's his duty to escort me. So, as I swing my legs over the side, he’s there, nose nudging my ankle, a low rumble of excitement in his chest. If I stand up too quickly, he does this little startled yelp, as if I've just performed a magic trick and vanished without his permission. Then he’s right back, pressing his entire body against my calf. It’s like a furry, four-legged shadow. A very happy, very warm shadow.
The bathroom? Forget about it. I've learned to accept that privacy is a concept Barnaby has never encountered. The moment the bathroom door opens, he’s in, usually settling himself in the most inconvenient spot possible. Sometimes it’s right in front of the sink, forcing me to step over him to brush my teeth. Other times, he’ll wedge himself between my legs as I'm sitting on the toilet. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He just rests his head on my knee, his tail giving a little wag now and then, as if to say, "Just hanging out, buddy. Don't mind me. Enjoy your … activities." It’s weirdly comforting, in a way. Like a furry little bodyguard for my personal hygiene.
Meals are another adventure. If I'm sitting at the kitchen table, Barnaby will be there, tail thumping a gentle rhythm against the table legs. His head will be resting on my lap, his big brown eyes looking up at me with an expression that screams, "Please drop just one tiny morsel. For me. Your most loyal companion." And even if I’m just standing and eating a snack, he’ll be glued to my side, his nose occasionally bumping my elbow. It’s never demanding, though. It’s more of a gentle, constant presence. A reminder that he’s there, and he’s happy to just be there.
The sofa is his favorite place, of course. But "favorite place" for Barnaby means on me. Not next to me. Not even leaning against me. He wants to be a literal part of the upholstery. He’ll try to curl up on my chest, or sprawl across my legs, or even use my stomach as a pillow. If I’m watching TV, he’s usually draped over me like a very warm, very fuzzy blanket. Sometimes, I have to gently shift him so I can actually see the TV, and he’ll just sigh dramatically and resettle himself, making sure there’s still optimal contact. It’s like he’s conserving body heat. My body heat, specifically.
Going to sleep is the grand finale of his day. No matter how many times I tell him to go to his own bed, he’ll inevitably find his way back. Usually, it’s a silent operation. I'll feel a little shift in the mattress, a warm weight settling down beside me. And then, he’s there. His head might be on my pillow, or his body might be pressed so firmly against my side that I can feel his steady breathing. Sometimes, his leg will be draped over mine, or his tail will be gently thumping my back. It’s a constant, reassuring pressure. A reminder that I’m not alone.
I used to find it a bit much. The constant nudging, the following me from room to room, the sheer insistence on physical contact. But then I started to realize what it really means. It means he trusts me. It means he feels safe with me. It means he loves me, in his own special, velcro-dog way. It’s not about being needy; it’s about connection. He’s expressing his affection, his security, his sheer joy in our shared existence. And honestly, who wouldn't want to be that loved?
There are moments, though, that are just pure comedy. Like when I’m trying to put on my shoes, and Barnaby decides my foot is the most interesting thing in the universe, or when I’m trying to cook and he’s attempting to "help" by licking the floor directly underneath where I’m standing. Or the time he somehow managed to get himself tangled in my blanket while I was still under it, and I ended up crawling around the bedroom with him attached to me like a fluffy limpet.
But these moments, as chaotic as they can be, are also incredibly endearing. They’re the little quirks that make Barnaby, well, Barnaby. And even though I might occasionally find myself a little hot, or have to carefully navigate my way through the house, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. This constant, comforting, sometimes hilarious, physical connection is a daily reminder of the incredible bond we share. He’s not just my dog; he’s my fuzzy, furry, ever-present shadow of love.