The story of a furry paw

I’m a weird person. And my dog is a weird dog.

I’m convinced she understands my feelings without me ever having to tell her what I’m feeling out loud. Which is rather convenient, considering that even humans who can actually understand my words sometimes struggle to understand my feelings.

I’m a weird human because whenever I’m thinking about something scary or something that makes me uncomfortable, I go and lie down on the cool floor next to my dog.

Sideways. With my face facing hers.

Yes, I realise how ridiculous that sounds. A grown woman, with bills to pay, deadlines to meet, and responsibilities to manage, voluntarily lying on the floor next to a dog for emotional support.

But hear me out.

I lie there, facing Zara, and pet her just below her neck. And then she does this thing. I don’t know what to call it, but it makes me feel safe.

She reaches out and places her paw on my hand.

And then, the most miraculous thing happens.

My racing heartbeat slows down. My breathing becomes steady. And for a few moments, I feel a kind of peace that I probably haven’t felt throughout the week.

Because lately, I haven’t exactly been living. I’ve been chasing deadlines.

There’s always something to finish, something to fix, something to worry about, something that needs my attention. My mind is perpetually running a marathon that nobody signed me up for.

And then there’s Zara, who has absolutely no interest in my deadlines, deliverables, performance reviews, or whether I’ve responded to that email.

She just puts her paw on my hand.

And somehow, that’s enough.

I often wonder why something so small can make such a profound difference to how I feel. And I think the answer might lie somewhere in my childhood.

You see, I don’t believe in supernatural beings.

Aliens? Maybe.

God? Maybe.

Angels and demons? Now we’re stretching it a little too far.

But as a child, I was absolutely convinced that my childhood home was haunted.

In my defence, I had a photographic, or rather, videographic imagination. My brain didn’t just imagine things; it helpfully produced entire movies, complete with visuals, sound effects, and an unnecessarily generous special-effects budget.

And back then, our parents would let us watch pretty much anything and everything.

Apparently, age-appropriate content wasn’t a thing in my household. Or perhaps it was, and I was simply very good at making questionable viewing choices.

Anyway, I ended up watching a couple of haunted films. And naturally, my very imaginative little brain decided to turn those films into a documentary about the potential supernatural activity in my own house.

I would get terribly scared as darkness fell.

The shadows looked suspicious. The corners of rooms looked suspicious. Every unexplained sound was clearly evidence that something evil was lurking nearby.

Looking back, I feel sorry for the child I was. She was just trying to sleep, but her own imagination had decided to become a full-time horror film director.

Back then, I used to sleep with my grandparents.

I would sleep next to my grandfather on one bed, while my grandmother slept on the other.

And because I was scared, my grandfather would tell me stories.

He would tell me the story of the Ramayana — the story of Rama, the righteous king who held his principles above everything else.

He would also tell me the story of the Mahabharata, which taught me, very early in life, that the world was an unfair place.

Quite the syllabus for a child who was already struggling with the concept of bedtime.

Between the righteousness of Rama and the moral complexities of the Mahabharata, I was receiving an education in ethics, duty, and the unfairness of life.

Meanwhile, my immediate concern was whether an evil spirit was going to drag me out of bed.

Priorities.

Somewhere along the way, as my grandfather narrated these stories, my eyelids would begin to droop.

But I refused to sleep.

Because, obviously, closing my eyes meant leaving myself unguarded. And if I left myself unguarded, some evil spirit might decide that this was the perfect opportunity to attack me.

Yes, I genuinely believed this.

I was a child. My imagination was vivid, my reasoning was questionable, and my fear was very real.

My grandfather, of course, would notice me fighting a losing battle with my eyelids.

And then he would do something so simple that I don’t think I understood its significance back then.

He would place his hand over me.

That’s it.

He would simply rest his hand on me, and somehow, the weight of it would reassure me.

I knew that if something evil really did come to attack me, my grandfather would protect me.

Or at least, that’s what my little brain believed.

And suddenly, I didn’t have to keep watch anymore.

I could stop listening for strange noises. I could stop imagining terrifying creatures in the darkness. I could stop fighting sleep as though my life depended on it.

I could close my eyes.

I could surrender to sleep.

Because someone was watching over me.

And I would fall asleep almost immediately.

—

Years have passed since those nights.

I’ve grown up. I’ve learnt that shadows are generally just shadows, that strange noises usually have perfectly ordinary explanations, and that watching horror films before bedtime is a terrible idea if you have an imagination like mine.

I no longer spend my evenings worrying about evil spirits lurking in the corners of my house.

I have much more sophisticated things to worry about now.

Work. Deadlines. Responsibilities. The general business of being an adult, which, quite frankly, feels like a scam nobody warned us about.

And yet, despite all the growing up, there are moments when I still feel like that little girl who is frightened, overwhelmed, and desperately looking for something that will tell her she’s safe.

Only now, instead of walking to my grandparents’ room, I walk over to Zara.

I lie down on the cool floor beside her, facing her face.

I pet her below her neck.

And she reaches out and puts her paw on my hand.

And my heart slows down.

My breathing steadies.

The noise inside my head begins to quieten.

Maybe there’s a perfectly scientific explanation for all of this. Perhaps the physical contact helps regulate my nervous system. Perhaps my brain has associated this particular gesture with comfort and safety.

Maybe Zara has simply figured out that if she puts her paw on my hand, her human will finally stop behaving like a malfunctioning machine and lie still for five minutes.

All of these explanations are entirely possible.

But sometimes, when she rests that paw on my hand, I think about my grandfather.

I think about those nights when I was too scared to close my eyes, and how the weight of his hand made the world feel a little less frightening.

And I wonder if that’s what Zara is doing for me now.

Maybe, somewhere deep inside my mind, that familiar feeling of being protected comes rushing back. Maybe my body remembers something my conscious mind has long forgotten.

The feeling of being small and scared, but not alone.

The feeling that I don’t have to be brave every single second.

The feeling that, just for a little while, someone else can keep watch.

And perhaps that’s why Zara’s paw feels like so much more than a paw resting on my hand.

It feels like permission to stop.

Permission to breathe.

Permission to let go of the things I cannot fix tonight.

Permission to simply exist without having to be useful to anyone.

—

Sometimes, I wonder if my grandfather sent Zara to look after his little girl.

Is she an angel sent by him to take care of me in this scary world?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I don’t know if angels exist. I don’t know if there’s some grand, invisible plan behind the people and animals who enter our lives and make them a little more bearable.

And honestly, I’m not sure I need to know.

Because perhaps not everything beautiful needs to be explained.

Perhaps some things can simply be felt.

Maybe my grandfather’s hand and Zara’s paw are connected only by the memories my mind has made. Maybe the comfort I feel is a beautiful coincidence, a familiar gesture that brings me back to a time when I felt protected.

Or maybe, just maybe, love has its own ways of finding us again.

I can’t prove any of it.

But I know this much.

When the world gets too loud, when my thoughts get too frightening, and when the weight of being an adult becomes a little too much, I have a furry creature who will let me lie beside her on the floor.

She doesn’t ask me to explain what’s wrong.

She doesn’t tell me to be strong.

She doesn’t offer solutions or remind me that I have deadlines to meet.

She just puts her paw on my hand.

And for a few precious moments, I am no longer a woman trying to keep up with the world.

I’m just a little girl who feels safe enough to close her eyes.

So, do I believe in angels?

I’m still not entirely convinced.

But some part of me really, really wants to believe that they exist.

And that sometimes, they have four furry paws, absolutely no understanding of corporate deadlines, and a rather unfortunate habit of shedding hair all over the house.

If that’s what an angel looks like, I think I’ve found mine.

And if my grandfather really did send her to me, I hope he knows she’s doing a wonderful job.

Although, Grandpa, if you’re reading this from wherever you are, could you please tell her to stop chewing on my scrunchies? They’re expensive. 🤣

Even angels need boundaries.

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