Protector of the Pack

This is my pooch, Zoë. This is her worried look. She worries a lot, and with good reason. We rescued Zoë when she was three, and she is nine now. When we got her she was 96 pounds (70-ish now) with a huge weeping sore on her neck and rampant ear infections. Life had been rough, just one of neglect mostly, and she had been forgotten about too many times. Sometimes they would forget to feed her, then remember and feel bad and feed her too much. Sometimes she got left outside overnight, and sometimes it was storming. She’s had bladder stones, infections galore. The dog is allergic to grass, and most of the summer we have to keep her on doggie Benadryl. We call her diphenhydra-dog.
She worries for her own safety, but she especially worries for ours. When one of us is sick she sticks close by, and licks hands for comfort. When there is a thunderstorm, as there was last night, Zoë stays awake, trembling, sure that the ramparts are being stormed, concerned for the security of our little pack.
Today she is snoozing in the armchair in my office, making up for lost sleep last night. As she gets older, she sleeps more of the time, and grunts and groans like an old person when she lays down and gets up. She also sighs in disdain at many of our antics (young whippersnappers), and her eyebrows shift and twitch in disbelief at the silliness of humans.
In a way, she reminds me of Nanny, from Peter Pan (I should get her a mobcap). It’s sort of nice knowing she’s there, watching out for me, saving me from the onslaught of woodland creatures that breach the security of our yard on a regular basis, and all the other threats the outside world has to offer.