In my family, we have different sized hands. My father’s are perfect, just the right size for a welcoming hug when he comes home from work. Mom’s hands are clean and crisp, like fresh laundry that just came out to the dryer. My hands are small and slippery, like butter was smeared all over them. They always do damage to something, anything.

But my dog- she doesn’t have hands, just paws. Her paws are soft, like a fleece blanket wrapped around me. She always is the first one to welcome me when I come home. She places her paws on my lap when I pet her. They can get sooty and smelly and mangy and mucky. But, her golden paws are my favorite.