Nami, our four-year old Yorkshire Terrier, has been clingy more often than usual these past few days.

He’s been begging me to pull him up with me on the bench while I worked at the dining table. I had to place one of the doggy stairs beside the bench to help him climb up by himself to nap beside me. At night he would crawl on my shoulders as I lie halfway down on our bed and find a spot on the pillows to sleep on. When Dylan and I are lazily relaxed on the sofa, he now crawls beside my lap to lay his head on my leg while he naps. Usually, he would just curl up at the foot of the couch and sleep at a distance where he can open his eyes and see us.

Sleeping on his own bed and then joining us in the middle of the night has turned into jumping up with us in bed the moment we slide in to sink under the duvet. This change has been happening slowly. I now find myself usually sandwiched between two snuggling dogs instead of just one, and I’m not complaining.

Kino, our half-Yorkie, half-Maltese mix, has always stuck close. She’s never further than a hand’s length at home and now Nami joined her, always making sure our bodies touch when he naps. This neediness fills the gaps created by moments when time is at a standstill. When I’m watching a movie alone at home I might think, “oh, it would be nice to invite friends and watch this together,” and then I’d glance to the pups sleeping and my heart melts. Why would I subject myself to rejection and complaints when I have my dogs always with me, giving me all the unconditional love and trust that their little bodies can muster.

I fill the nothing moments with my dogs, their need for attention and love and touch.

Other moments are filled with various things.

Some moments are filled with movies and dramas that I consume hungrily, in between seasons, because tugged heartstrings make me feel alive. I let myself get swept up watching stories of love, fantasy, adventure, sacrifice and heartache. These stories have an end so I don’t have to deal with anxiety from not knowing what happens next.

Some evenings are filled in the kitchen, where I cook to make myself feel I’ve accomplished something wonderful for the day. Because food makes Dylan happy and his excitement over dinner fills me with a sense of purpose.

Some hours are spent with words: the frustrations and anger, the disappointments and hurt that I let flow because there’s no one else to talk to. In my online spaces, I don’t have to time anything. I don’t have to pretend to feel a certain way. If I write to everyone and no one, I might get lucky and find someone who understands. Sometimes I get a response and I feel less broken.

Some gaps are filled by video games or chores, or scrolling through pictures of homes and gardens that fuel my dreams. On weekends, Dylan whisks me out of the house: we go to a cafe, or the sea, or catch up with friends, play mini golf outdoors, explore a maze, or find animals in the wild. He puts in so much effort to make me happy and maybe I don’t tell him often enough how much I appreciate that.

At least I’m no longer engraving sadness and hurt into the empty spaces in my memories.

I was writing this post yesterday as we were winding down in the evening, trying to get ready for sleep, when Dylan curiously asked what I was writing. I said (truthfully), “I’m writing about Nami.” It’s not enough. “It’s a happy post,” I continued. “I’m not sad.”

In his own way he checks that my nothing moments aren’t bringing me tears.

And I’m no longer sad, that’s true. I’m busy, and tired, and there’s a holiday we need to pack for and a house we need to move to. There’s fewer empty moments to lament, to feel sad or resentful, and no more instances of feeling hurt by other people.

As I type this, Nami and Kino are both sleeping beside me. Kino on my left and Nami on my right. I let their contentment become infectious; they are happy and calm enough to sleep so soundly. Surely I can do the same.