The Warmth Between Us
February feels like the longest month of the entire year. It’s not because of the days, it’s the patience one must endure during the month when the winter seems never-ending. The holidays are long past, and there’s nothing left to distract from the winter. The cold settles into our bones and our routines, seeping into the silence. It’s the difference between surviving winter and being held through it.
Winter doesn’t need optimism; it needs warmth. February is not about beginnings anymore; it’s about staying the course. It’s the kind of cold that asks, “What will you keep close?”
For me, this should come as no surprise to my readers; I keep my dog close. Abbi has been a constant companion for the last three years of my life, and she reminds me to enjoy life every day, just by being her sweet furry self.
I first met her in February. I had been preparing for a dog for some time, knowing I was going to be getting one, just not which one. So, I had the bowls, the food, the crate, the leash, and even some toys. I was ready, and it was time for me to go see if I could find my next best friend.
It was the one-year anniversary of the death of my friend, Jackie. I was freshly divorced and newly single. I was an exposed nerve ready to pop. I didn’t set out to get a dog specifically for that anniversary; it just sort of happened. It fell on a Saturday, and I was scheduled to meet several dogs at City Dogs, a no-kill shelter in Cleveland. They were overrun with dogs, and I saw on the news they were running a special called “21 Dogs in 21 Days for $21.”
I met with a friend of mine who volunteered there. While we were chatting, I told her which dogs I wanted to meet when we were there, and she said she wasn’t sure whether any of them were the kind of dog I was looking for. She suggested I check out Bubbles. When I looked at her profile, I said, “There she is.”
But I still went to a different shelter that morning, in case I had missed someone. I was hoping to meet a Great Pyrenees, but he was on hold, so instead I walked through the kennel and looked at all the possibilities. Of course, it was hard because I wanted to take all of them home.
So, I chose to take myself to brunch, read a little, and then go meet my friend at City Dogs. She was already waiting for me with Bubbles on a leash. We went into a fenced-in area and let Bubbles off the leash, where she ran as if she hadn’t run in weeks. She probably hadn’t. I gave her some time to see how she and I got along, but I wanted to see the other dogs, too, just in case. So, my friend put her in a kennel nearby, and she watched as I played with another dog named Karl.
Karl was a potato of a dog, and if I could have taken them both, I would have. The entire time I was playing with Karl, poor Bubbles sat in a kennel, crying. I looked at her and said, “Can we bring her out one more time?”
She was back to running and coming over for pets and snacks. My friend said something like, “She’s yours if you want her.”
I thought for another moment or two and said, “That’s my dog.” We called her over with a snack. I gave her a kiss on the nose and said to her, “I’m going to name you Abbi.” About thirty minutes later, Abbi was in my car, and we were heading home.
I learned that she had been dumped on the street and had been wandering around for who knows how long. She had been dumped, and I had been dumped. It was meant to be. We entered the cold of February together and never looked back. She was love that arrived quietly and stayed.
During that time, I was having a hard time going upstairs to the bedroom, so for the first six months of her life with me, we stayed in the living room and slept on the couch. At first, she slept on the opposite side of the sofa, but little by little she got closer until she felt safe enough to snuggle. And ever since then, she’s slept curled up next to me every night.
It was through her proximity that I began to define what warmth really was. It was more than just the hot air blowing from the furnace or the body heat we shared while cuddling. It was her proximity, her breath in a quiet room, shared routines like meal times, and when it was time to go outside for quick breaks. And through that, there was a grounding effect of caring for another being.
She needed me for structure, food, steadiness. I needed her for presence, grounding, and the now-ness of owning a dog. Our routine became an act of love for both of us. She started to get the hang of things, knowing when it was time to go to the crate or how to tell me she needed to go potty. Caring for another keeps you tethered to the present. I could no longer get lost in grief and pain. I had to keep moving. Love doesn’t ask for performance; it asks for you to show up.
Once I got used to her little body against mine, it became increasingly hard for me to go to sleep. I needed to feel the weight of her. Her steady breathing, her completely relaxed body language, all of it. She’s gotten so in tune with me now that she comes to sit right next to me the moment I start to spiral, and it grounds me back to the present. Sometimes safety is physical before it’s emotional.
She’s seen me through three winters now. She never asked me to explain why I was crying or who hurt me this time. She just shows up and offers her steady little presence. It doesn’t matter how crappy my day has been, she’s always happy to see me. Her tail always wags for me, even if I’ve just left for a few moments to go to the bathroom. Her love has been the most stable thing in my life while everything else has shifted time and time again.
I choose to mark the time in love, rather than milestones. She is a living hearthlight—steady, warm, unassuming. She entered my life during the cold winter and the dark night of the soul, and has brought more joy and warmth than I can mention in one newsletter.
And I think that’s what animals can teach us all. Presence, not promise. Continuity, not climax. And the truth that doesn’t need explanation. She’s a warmth that doesn’t shout, a love that doesn’t demand, and a light that stays on.
