Whining

Nacho, my small dog of nearly fourteen years, is standing in the kitchen at a distance from me, just staring at me and whining quietly. What could he want? He does this every so often.

I encourage him to come closer to me through clicks of the mouth and flapping the palm of my hand at him. Perhaps if I give him a bit of love, pet him, muss the hair of his head up a bit, it will soothe him, quiet him down.

I do wonder if maybe he's craving play, like he used to when he was younger, obsessively playing fetch without ever tiring. Then I think of Cesar Milan, whose philosophy for dog care is "exercise, discipline, affection; in that oder." Sedentary apartment life isn't for dogs, and maybe he's whining from cravings of activity regardless his old age and that his hips hurt. And it may be play and activity, but he could walk miles and miles and retrieve a ball for days and still whine, because play and activity are irrelevant with what he's really after.

I call him again, convinced it's a type of loneliness he's subtly suffering, but even if I got him to come to me so I could reassure him of connection with my hand, with me, I know it wouldn't be enough.

I know what he's missing. It's what we are all missing. It's what many of the books I've been reading have been talking about us all missing.

He is lonely, but my company can't fix that, because he is lonely for more than just me, for more than just one. He is lonely for pack; he is craving family, community. He is aching for the house to be full—of play, of activity, of breaths and scents and eyes and tribe, of life, the way we all are.