Round Friends

Today we went to the farmers market, which is one of my favorite places because it contains several of life’s greatest treasures all in one area:

snacks,
sunshine,
people carrying flowers,
and the general feeling that everyone is trying their best to be a charming village character.

Pandy, of course, approached the market with calm purpose.

He had a tote bag.
He had a loose plan.
He had opinions about produce that suggested he had been mentally preparing for this outing since yesterday.

I was more freeform.

I wanted to see everything.
Smell everything.
Potentially sample everything.

Mini Blue was, at first, normal.

Cheerful.
Round.
Emotionally available.

And then we reached the peach stand.

I noticed the peaches first because they were glowing in that suspiciously beautiful way fruit sometimes does, like they know they are in season and have become powerful.

They were all soft gold and blushy pink and arranged in little rows like they had something to prove.

I said, “Wow.”
Pandy said, “These do look good.”
And Mini Blue—

Mini Blue froze.

Not scared.
Not confused.

Moved.

Deeply, sincerely, wordlessly moved.

I do not know how else to explain it.
Mini Blue looked at one particular peach as though they had met in another lifetime.

There was an entire silent exchange.

The peach sat there being a peach.
Mini Blue sat there being overcome.

I leaned down and said, “Mini Blue?”
Mini Blue did not blink.

Pandy stepped closer, looked at the peach, then looked at Mini Blue, and quietly said, “Oh no.”

Because he understood immediately.

Mini Blue had become emotionally invested.

Now, some people might say that is too strong a phrase for a plush octopus reacting to stone fruit.

To those people I say:
you were not there.

You did not see the intensity.
The longing.
The tiny, silent conviction that this peach mattered.

Mini Blue gently reached out one little tentacle.

Not to grab.
Just to connect.

It was one of the most tender and unnecessary moments I have ever witnessed.

Naturally, I said, “We have to get it.”
Pandy said, “We are already getting peaches.”
And I said, “No, I mean that one. That is Mini Blue’s peach now.”

The farmer, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of the situation.
He picked up the peach very carefully and placed it in the bag like he was handling a precious emotional artifact.

Mini Blue watched the entire process with total devotion.

For the rest of the market trip, Mini Blue remained unusually focused.
Not upset.
Just thoughtful.

Like someone who had experienced something real.

Pandy bought greens, I got distracted by pastries, and Mini Blue stayed close to the tote bag as though guarding destiny itself.

When we got home, Pandy sliced the peaches and arranged them nicely.
Mini Blue sat beside the plate with the expression of someone attending a meaningful ceremony.

And honestly?

It was a very good peach.

Sweet.
Fragrant.
Soft in a way that makes you briefly believe summer might actually know what it is doing.

Mini Blue seemed at peace after that.

Changed, perhaps.
But at peace.

I think we all deserve to care about something the way Mini Blue cared about that peach.

So if you find yourself at a farmers market and one beautiful little thing calls to your soul, I encourage you to listen.

Especially if it is fruit.
Especially if it is in season.
Especially if your emotional support octopus is staring at it like it contains the meaning of life.

Warmly,
Doggie

Pandy’s Postscript:
To be fair, it was an excellent peach. But yes, Mini Blue absolutely imprinted on it.