The dog who loves you doesn’t ask you to be stupendous. You’re okay in dog book.
You’re okay because really, in the last analysis, you’re companionable. Even if you don’t talk much. Even if you’re having a bad day. Your dog knows you like the phases of the moon. Yes, you’re okay in dog book. Not a fumbling, half forgetful, regret-machine. Not a jealous athlete or poet. Not a tired mother; a broken teacher; a strict and addicted capitalist. Your dog knows you like the tides; like all the decent, kind, lucky confederacies of chance—even if you’re not presently much of a man or woman, you will be again. Your dog knows.
Planet of the Blind 