When Lightning gently placed the medicine tablet in my palm, I finally understood his stubbornness. In the past, whenever I worked overtime, he would knock over the trash can and shred the toilet paper into countless pieces, creating a "snowstorm" in the living room. But on the day I was diagnosed with an illness, he suddenly became quiet. He would silently stay by the medicine box, watching over it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
When severe coughing made me curl up on the sofa, he would press his entire body against my back. His warm breath seeped through my sweater, soothing my spasming muscles. One late night, I woke up to find him crouching on the weighing scale, repeatedly tapping the numbers with his paw. He didn't jump down until I got up, took my medicine, and assured him that I was okay. It turned out that he had long learned to measure my health in his own unique way.
Reading More
\