Tears stream down my face and disappear into my pillow. I'm lost and angry and confused, I hate the world. All I want is to be alone, but a brown, curly-haired Labradoodle meanders into my room, seeking her master. I close the door, angry at her for opening it up and exposing me, if only for a moment, to the rest of the household. She senses my distress, looking up at me with big, curious green eyes and wagging her tail affectionately, asking me in her own, canine manner, to tell her what's wrong. I give in and kneel down before her, allowing my hands to run through her fur. She licks my face cautiously, urging me to open up. I do. Words spill out, and though, intellectually, I know she is only an animal and has no idea what I'm saying, I feel as though something deep within those loving, olive-colored eyes screams, "I understand." Whether she knows what I'm saying or not, she's definitely listening intently. But of course, she doesn't respond. She doesn't insist on telling me what I did wrong or offering advice. She doesn't go on about how it's not my fault or how I shouldn't worry about it. She just listens. I appreciate this. When it's all finally off my chest, I take a deep breath out. My dog leans forward and licks my face affectionately, getting rid of the salty tears and forcing a smile onto my face. I start laughing. The more I laugh, the more she licks me, the more she licks me, the more I laugh, and the cycle goes on and on until my worries and fears have been banished from my mind and all that is left in the world is this beautiful man's best friend, her soft fur, her tongue on my cheeks, her wagging tail. I growl and she growls back, playfully. I grab her and, in response, she scratches and nips me enthusiastically. I grab her by her neck and manage to push her to the ground. I've won the play-fight. She willingly submits, tale wagging, tongue lolling out. I lie down beside her, my hand in her fur. I kiss her forehead. "Good dog."