Francisco is new to me. A dog that, by nature, forms a bond that creates a loyalty I know nothing about. Loyalty to something not abstract, or completely fabricated is unfamiliar. He spies on me through the corner of his eyes, approving of it all. Ruey, I call him, and I do this often so that he may come close to me, in order to examine him in a similar fashion. Through eyes loving and encouraging.
We walk, the two us, like king and queen. Next to him, I rise. I am certain that I know nothing, and am comfortable with an empty head. The fear touches me, but it does not reach my throat.
He is a young child. Not old. Not breathing in adulthood.
He is a noble soul, never to be corrupted.