Typing a Life into Existence.

Rebuilding a life when you are halfway through it takes time. But when one is racing against the countdown of Life's Clock, time is the one thing that seems to be in short supply.
Finnegan lay on his bed, nose resting atop his paws, and considered the sight of his human at her computer. She typed as if her life depended upon it. She typed as if trying to corral every good idea in the universe onto a single page of paper. It would be a list of viable ideas, that she could print off and carry about in her back pocket to pull out and review on days when the panic of losing all hope began to take over.
He wanted to tell her that she was doing an amazing job. But he knew she would not believe him. Not yet. He wanted to thank her for keeping his food dish full, his water dish sparkling clean, for walking him 3 times a day and giving him belly rubs. But he knew she would shush him and tell him that was love and love takes no effort. It's as innate as breathing.
This very human business of rebuilding a life from the scrap heap of her previous one would be the miracle to end all miracles once she had managed it. She had explained that it was now about "earning a living" by doing what she loved. It was also about the practicalities of keeping a roof over their heads and being able to feel safe on cold winter nights. And she said something else that made him pay attention. She said it was about rebuilding to a point where she could then give back to someone else. And to someone else's dog, too. That made him wag his stubby tail.
He wondered about a life that did not rely upon "earning a living", as she called it.  What would a life without money entail? Would it be difficult to live off the land like a wolf? He could drink river water and roll in smelly stuff all day long. He could run with a pack of friends. Together they could sit and soak up long, lazy rays of the sun on summer afternoons and howl at the full moon on winter nights. He could hunt wild rabbits; And eat them if they would stand still long enough to be pounced upon. Hmmm. But he would not have his big, plush bed with its fleecy blanket. And frosty mornings might not be pleasant with his bad hips and no Human Woman to fuss over him and make him comfy. And of course, there would be a serious lack of Pupperoni. He did not think that wolves got to eat Pupperoni or peanut butter biscuits or yam and eggs. And they certainly did not get hugs. Oh. He would miss hugs almost as much as little treats!
"Keep typing, Human Woman, keep typing. We need to buy some Pupperoni!" He whispered.
She did not turn, she did not speak, but the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. She continued typing their life into existence.