I named my little dog, Jasmine, because when I was heart-broken over the loss her predecessor, the floral scent of my favorite green tea helped. My children, being of Chinese descent, were tea drinkers almost from infancy. Making a pot of Earl Grey or Jasmine is something they do for me, for their dad, for each other. It’s a hug in a cup.
Jasmine Tea, shortened to Jazzy most of the time, loves a pillow in front of the fire, Coco’s blanket, or your lap if it’s empty. Like all dogs, she spends a ridiculous amount of time sleeping. She’s a comfort expert. She lounges around, limp and fuzzy like a plush toy.
Except when she’s barking. Which is most of the time she’s awake. Barking is her day job.
When Jazzy doesn’t want me to leave, she breaks out a toy, usually a pink pig or a monkey. She follows me around the house, pressing her nose against my heel until we play fetch.
On those days she’s at the groomers, our house is too empty. Sterile isn’t a perfect word because of the dust and the miscreant shoes lying in wait to trip me, but it’s something like that antiseptic adjective. Jasmine makes our home a haven.