I learned about the world through my nose. Every leaf, every paw-print, every passing breeze is a page in a book I am always reading. But sometimes, the book opens too many pages at once. The stories bleed together into a loud, buzzing hum. On a walk with too many dogs, too many cars, too much of everything, I must stop. I find a quiet place under a tree, and I press my belly to the cool earth until the world becomes simple again.
I have seen Claire have her own buzzing hum.
It starts with a drink. Not from her water bowl, but from a tall, cold glass that fizzes and smells sharp and golden, like forgotten fruit. She sips it, and slowly, the air around her changes.
First, her sounds become looser. Her laugh spills out more easily, like a ball tumbling from a box. The lines around her eyes soften.
Then, her body forgets its usual rules. She moves through the kitchen with a new, swaying rhythm, her steps less sure but more joyful. She once called it dancing. To me, it looked like a human learning how her own legs work all over again.
Finally, her words come out warm and melted. She gathers my face in her hands, her breath sweet with the sharp golden smell, and calls me names that have no meaning but are full of love. “My bestest floofer-bear.” In those moments, she is both more here and somehow less… precise.
I used to think it was just a strange thing humans did. A quirk, like wearing hard shells on their feet or staring at small, bright boxes for hours.
But the day under the tree taught me.
That day, the world was too much for my nose. I shut down.
Her drink is for when the world is too much for her… her heart? Her mind?
We are the same.
When my senses are flooded, I find a quiet tree.
When her feelings are flooded, she finds a golden drink.
We are both seeking the same thing: a softening of the edges. A way to make the buzzing quiet down.
Now, when I see her reach for that glass, I do not worry. I understand. She is walking to the edge of her own kind of wild field, where the feelings are tall and loud. And when she comes back, swaying and singing my silly name, I will be there.
I will lean against her legs, a solid, quiet weight. I will be her tree. Her steady earth. I will anchor her in the gentle, familiar smell of home until her world and mine are simple and soft once more.
