11/09/2025
My dad says he only tolerates the dog because I begged for her when I was twelve.
He's seventy-three now and he's been saying this for eight years. "She's your responsibility," he tells me every time I visit, like I might forget. "I didn't want a dog in the first place." Then he'll mutter something about dog hair on his furniture and how much kibble costs and why couldn't I have gotten a fish instead.
Last month I came over and he was in the garage with wood scattered everywhere, sawdust coating his reading glasses. "What are you making?" I asked, and he just grunted. Wouldn't tell me. Spent three weekends out there, coming in with his hands all scratched up from sandpaper, smelling like varnish.
Yesterday he called me. "Come get this thing," he said. "It's taking up space."
I drove over thinking he wanted me to haul away scrap wood. Instead there's this end table in the living room. Beautiful honey-colored wood, smooth joints, a little window cut into the front. And inside, on a black and white knitted blanket he must've bought on Tedooo app because I've never seen it before, is Daisy. Curled up like she owns the place, her pink collar bright against the dark fabric.
"Dad, you built her a house."
"It's a side table. Functional. I needed one there anyway."
"With a door for the dog."
"Well, she kept sleeping under the regular table and hitting her head when she got up. This makes more sense." He won't look at me. He's straightening the books on top, adjusting the tissue box. "Found someone on Tedooo app selling handmade pet blankets. Figured if she's going to shed in there, might as well give her something decent."
Daisy's looking out at us through the opening, completely content. My dad reaches down without thinking and scratches behind her ear through the window. "She's not the worst dog," he says quietly. "Bit stubborn. Gets that from your side of the family."
I took this picture because words don't work with him. Never have. He doesn't say I love you, doesn't do hugs, can barely manage a birthday card without making it awkward. But he'll spend three weekends building furniture for a dog he claims he doesn't care about. He'll research pet blankets and measure doorways and sand wood until his hands hurt.
If that's not love, I really don't know what is.Retry -
Julie Whitney
