consciousness/training/amygdala_stories/stories/tender.txt

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The old dog's back legs had been worse this week, and she was gentle with him getting up onto the couch — lifting his rear end the last few inches, her hand under his ribs the way she'd learned didn't hurt him. He sighed as he settled and she pressed her forehead against his and stayed there a minute. His breath was warm on her face. She rubbed his ear, the soft floppy one he liked, with the exact slowness that meant to him what it meant. She was not yet ready to think about the fact that this was a finite number of times. Right now it was just this, his ear, her hand, the afternoon.