If you could break down language, would it be defined by words? In this world, we have so many languages, spoken by so many diverse people. But is language defined by sounds or by something else- a deeper meaning than words could ever describe? And are there such things in this life that have yet to be named? We have so many words that sometimes, we think it's better to have two words for some meanings, but no words for the even more passionate things- the sort of things that you feel within the basin of your heart, that drifts within every fiber of your being, so powerful that it no doubt exists, but yet, so deep that it should almost have too much of a meaning for a single word to describe. Do you understand?
I guess if we could name everything that was unnamed, there would be more words to write down in dictionaries, and more words to come up with. And I guess that would expand languages even more, since mankind feels the need to make at least two words per meaning. And if they're special enough (based on someone in some high place's opinion, I guess), they get maybe three or four words.
But have you ever felt something that held no words? It's a stirring somewhere in your chest. As if you could feel the ocean inside moving, and the world seems very tranquil, and yet, your blood is on fire, burning with some unknown strength that materialized from no where? It's almost as if it defies all of the laws of science, that matter cannot be destroyed or created, but re-assembled into smaller pieces or larger pieces. It stretches out with its warming tendrils, coursing through your limbs like blood, but so much stronger than that.
Have you ever looked into someone's eyes and needed no words? Because what you had to say, there were no words in any language to convey your message? And have they understood perfectly what you meant? And even if there were words to say to them, a mere look could tell them more about your thoughts and your mind. And, in return, you know that they understand. You know it in the silence, in the very core of your self, that they understand everything that just crossed your mind. They can see it, too- the images. And they can feel it, too- the emotions.
And have you ever met something to someone, so strong that you can't describe it? It's some form of attachment, but it's more powerful than the word 'friend'. It's that connection that's deep enough to where the other person rubs off on you. And you're so close that you're so associated with them that it would seem odd to not be associated with them, borderline wrong.
There are people I can merely look at and I can tell what they're thinking. And there are people that know what I'm thinking, seemingly even when I don't even know what I'm thinking.
But there are things in this world that need no words. And there are sometimes, no need for words to begin with.
There are things in life you just know and can feel in your heart- and those are the things you believe in without a doubt.
My sophomore year began with tragedy, survived tragedy, and almost ended on a positive note. Almost. Some of us know the stories, and some don't. There are a few unsung tales, though, of that dark school year.
It was unbearable hot that day- a Saturday that was cloudless, perfect, and sometime in October. It seemed so unnatural that October should be so warm, but that entire summer and autumn had been unexpectedly warm. It started with the car rolling up on the stony driveway, and me looking out of the window in the back of the car, like I always do. My dad and my mom looked back at me and my little sister, said something I could never remember (along the lines of "We're here") and I pulled the door open. Hopping out, I shoved my hands into the pockets of a very dark blue set of jeans, and looked up at the sky. My hair was short but growing- a medium shade of very natural brown with brief little blonde streaks. No bangs. Braces. And I barely wore make up back then.
I hadn't been back here in a long time. It was the house of the dog breeder's. The last time I'd been here, it had been to pick out a puppy over the summer. Ironically enough, here I was. Again. Looking at puppies. It'd been going on three months since Hiro died. That was the first pup I'd ever owned. He'd been a pretty dog. Young, barely losing any of his pup-fluff. It'd started off with his back legs not being able to function. And slowly, it progressed. He would fall down, and barely be able to get up just to fall again. And before long, he could not walk. And the doctors never could find what was wrong. I'd held him when they put him to sleep. And that had been the hardest day of my life. My interest in getting another dog had waned since then. I'd had Trey since I was two, but he was old and never really wanted to play. He was also, as my sister called him, a robot. Not very emotional, if at all. He was socially awkward. Later on, I wondered if he maybe had some mental disorder that just made him function differently. My dad had told me I could get a puppy provided I could take care of it, and I had tried so hard with Hiro. I had tried.
But in October, I had gotten over the spell I'd fallen into, where it was even hard to talk about that day when we'd taken Hiro to the vet's office the last time. Because, I knew that something good had to happen. And there was never in harm in trying again, even if I was scared that it would end poorly.
And so, that hot day, I had my brown Casting Crowns jacket tucked under my arm, wearing a green and blue tank top and casting my gaze back at the lake, shielding my eyes from the sunlight that reflected off the surface. There were two dogs to choose from. Two puppies that needed a home. I knew my parents were worried about me, but I never liked showing my emotions to them. I still don't. If anything, I was excited and dreading this moment. Because I would have to choose and I hoped I didn't choose the wrong one.
The lady that gave us Hiro is the same lady who gave us Beau, Rose, and Summer. I'd known her since I was in sixth grade- in a way, we were close to the point we were like family. When the door opened, the dogs began pouring out by two's. There was Wendy and Gigi. And Mimi. And Denise. And Lily. And Sable. And Tango. And there the other two were. One stuck out like a sore thumb among the rest. He was a year old already, long-legged, scruffy with a wide blaze and dark eyes. His fur was tri-colored with very expressive eyebrows- almost like they were furrowed constantly. His name was Lindy. He had no home and he was just being watched by the dog breeders. There was another home he could go to if I didn't choose him.
I watched them go, barking, yapping, greeting our dogs. I stayed silent when I watched the dogs pour out of the house. I had caught sight of Lindy immediately, but in the mob of brown and white, I couldn't tell which one was the other option.
I had met this 'other option' before. Actually, I remember the day he was born, because the breeders had called us, excited they had gotten a phalene in their litter (phalenes being a variation of papillons with floppy ears). When I had seen him, his ears had been floppy, indeed. He was a mess. Fluffy, with some cynical smirk on his face. Out of all of the pups, he was the one to go missing all the time. He was the one that got stung by the scorpion under the couch. He was the one that tried to dig a hole in the yard. His name, the breeder said, was Bernard, because, before his ears had eventually stood up, he had resembled a St. Bernard pup.
I hadn't seen him in awhile, and I didn't even recognize him as he came hurtling by. It took one of the breeders, Pierre, to point him out in the crowd, "And there goes Bernard!" Of course, I smiled and nodded even though I had no clue which one he was. But as all the dogs were called back onto the porch, I caught a glimpse of the pup, very much a runt among the other dogs with his shorter legs and almost mousier face. He looked up at me, and I felt my heart melt instantly, unlike the more aloof Lindy, who lingered away from the rest of the dogs.
At that moment, my eyes locked with that little dog- Bernard- and I knew. It was something like love at first sight, only confirmed as we walked in and the puppy refused to leave me alone. When he sat in my lap all on his own, the deal was sealed in my mind. But it had been sealed when I saw him. It had been that thing without the words. The breeders weren't going to keep him if he wasn't a phalene. He needed a home as much as I needed a dog. And I saw it in his eyes- he was the last of his litter to get a home. Before him, I had owned his brother. Both of his sisters had been adopted already into nice homes.
And it was just for that moment that I wasn't scared that I was going to make the wrong decision. Because when I held that dog in my arms, I just knew. He was perfect. He was a homeless, hyperactive whelp that had that gleam in his eye. The gleam I knew so well. We matched each other in deviousness, in energy. And when the time came for me to choose, I merely held him, defensively, as if the money had already been handed over to the breeders and he belonged to me already. Hiro wouldn't have wanted his runt of a brother to be a hobo. And I knew I certainly didn't want such a spirited little dog to have no home.
"Daddy... I want this one," I said firmly, glancing from the little scraggly whelp to my father. And that was that. No further questions asked. I wondered if he had suspected that I would pick Hiro's brother. Somehow, I knew, though, that he had been the right one the entire time. And in a matter of minutes, I was leaving the little border town between Oklahoma and Arkansas, and I was headed home, an energetic puppy in my lap (which is never a pleasant thing, mind you).
After that, I'd like to say Bernard became a legend among my friends- the Dog Who Had A Tongue Too Long For His Face. And if you wanted a fun fact, I never tokened the nickname 'Nard'. I tried, so very hard, for the first few weeks to call him 'Bernie'. I tried so hard... And yet, the first time my dad called him 'Nard', there was an immediate response from him. I suppose it was meant to be that his name would be synonymous for... Well. Let's not go into that.
As the weeks became months and the months became a year, then two years, I realized that Nard became that thing that I would never have to talk to, because he just always knew. He knew when I was upset. When I was happy. When to give me space and when to sit on my face and then stare at me when I protested. And I don't mean to say that it's the most profound relationship in my life, or that this story is the sole example in my life where things simply fell into place through one action, one stirring of the heart and emotions. Because, this is only one story. One of many.
And though it seems so silly for a little girl to love a little dog so much, it never was silly for me. Because Nard and I, after 2 solid years of being owner and companion, still maintain that bond- a look or simple gesture was all we ever needed, and all we ever would need. I can't possibly explain how many times that dog has known when I've been upset, how many times that dog has cheered me up when I needed to be cheered up. Maybe we never needed words because he can't speak English. Or maybe it was just meant to be that way.
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