In early 2018, Dyngo and I drove up to my parents’ home in Connecticut. It was an unusual balmy day in February and we rode with the windows down, Dyngo’s head raised into the slanting sun.
He adapted well to my childhood home—he made friends with the neighbors’ dogs, dragged branches across the muddy yard and took long evening walks with my father in the downy snow. It was the longest Dyngo had been away from D.C. since he’d arrived in May 2016.
When we pulled into our building’s circular driveway after two weeks, I looked on as he jumped down onto the concrete.
His face changed as he reoriented himself to the surroundings, finding his footing along the uneven sidewalks and making a beeline toward his favorite tree spot. As we entered my apartment, he nosed his way inside, then pranced back and forth between his beds and bowls.
He danced toward me, his eyes filled to the brim with an expression that required no interpretation: “We’re home! We’re home!”
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