Dog Named Leaf by Allen Anderson

grabbed it in his mouth with determination, and swam back to shore.
    A bright light of new confidence emanated from Leaf. The other man and I were enthusiastic about Leaf and his victory. He had faced the unknown. “Good boy,” I kept saying. “You did it!”
    As we continued our walk through the park, I intermittently threw the ball for Leaf and thought about how my recent health traumas had tested the still waters of my life. Watching Leaf refuse to give up was a lesson for how creative and persistent I’d need to be in order to get my life back. It was refreshing to see Leaf conquer fear and anxiety. He glowed with self-confidence. He had swum into the unknown. Did I have as much courage as my little dog?

    Leaf demonstrated another survival skill I’d need in my own journey. Because of Leaf’s prior abandonment and my experiences with police work, we both had to revive our trust in people. For Leaf, this test of courage took the form of allowing himself to show affection to a species that had cruelly betrayed him.
    Linda had always wanted a dog who would let her pet and cuddle him. Leaf would have none of that. Linda could pet him, and he’d allow it. But if she leaned down to kiss his head, he offered nothing in return. One day she confided, “Oh, how I long for one more of Taylor’s sweet doggy kisses.”
    We don’t remember the exact date when it happened, but a few months after Leaf became a member of our family, Linda bent down to kiss him on his forehead. He raised his head and examined her face carefully, as he had on our first visit to the animal shelter. Then with his raspy pink tongue, he planted a big, wet kiss not on her mouth, but on her nose.
    One kiss. She said, “I think I’m going to die of happiness.”
    From that point on, their kissing sessions burgeoned from one to two to three to four carefully placed nose licks. Within another couple ofmonths, Linda was the thrilled recipient of kisses in the morning, kisses in the evening, and definitely kisses at suppertime.
    Around the time that my medical drama shook our lives, Leaf started a new bedtime ritual. He’d jump up on the bed, paw at my side, pull down the covers, and prepare it for his favorite playmate’s arrival. Then he’d roll over on his back while I rubbed his tummy.
    After Linda was tucked in with her head propped up on pillows and a book in her hands, Leaf would sit at her shoulder and gaze lovingly and intensely into her eyes. Then carefully and methodically, up and down and sideways, he’d lick her nose for as much as a minute.
    Satisfied that he’d settled her in for the night, he’d say goodnight to me with a lick or two. Linda got many more kisses, I guess because Leaf knew she needed them. All the pain and anxiety she felt over the possibility of losing her husband to death or permanent disability drained out of her as she and Leaf held their nightly love fest. She liked to joke, “I have a husband and a fella.”

    After he completed the kissing, Leaf would rest his head on Linda’s shoulder and fall asleep while she read. He’d stay there until she turned off the light. At that point he’d jump off the bed and go back to sleep on his adjacent dog bed or in the bedroom doorway—ever protective, ever watchful. Linda and I would fall asleep listening to his gentle sighs, snores, and snorts.
    One night as she closed her book and prepared to go to sleep, Linda turned to me and said, “I’ve been kissed by many dogs in my life. No kisses have been sweeter than Leaf’s. Maybe it’s because I had to earn them.”
    Leaf had taken the steps toward committing to his relationship with Linda and me. With his new nighttime ritual, he expressed gratitude and love. And that’s what you do with the ones you love—you kiss them on the nose.

C HAPTER F OURTEEN
The Manual
    A BOUT A WEEK BEFORE MY SCHEDULED BRAIN SURGERY, NIGHT AFTER night, never leaving his post, Leaf stretched out flat on the floor of my office, while I