There’s a certain joy that comes with having a grandbaby—not just the kind that calls you Grandma, but the kind with four legs, soulful eyes, and a tail that does half the talking.
Brendan is my daughter’s Black Lab, and calling him “funny” barely scratches the surface. He studies me like I’m his favorite subject. It’s as if he knows what I’m thinking before I even say a word. There’s a rhythm to our connection—a silent understanding that only comes from deep affection.
I spend a few weeks at my daughter’s house, soaking in every moment with him. We fall into our own routine: laughs, cuddles, long gazes, and little conversations in the language only we speak. Then it’s time for me to head home, and the quiet is loud. I miss him more than I expect—more than I admit sometimes.
But every time I come back, Brendan makes sure I know I was missed just as much. The tail wags faster. The kisses come quicker. The joy is tangible. It’s love, pure and sweet.
This little love story between me and my grandbaby dog is a reminder: connection isn’t always spoken. Sometimes it’s in shared glances, gentle nudges, and the simple joy of being known.
Inside the mind of cree 