The Run Hug

Anyone with kids knows the Run Hug. It goes like this: walk in the door, heads turn, followed by a pause and a moment of recognition, then a mad-dash ensues to see who can be the first to wrap their arms around your neck and wring out the love. Prepare for it and you'll likely squat down, recieve it with open arms, and be bowled over by it. Let it catch you off guard, and you'll likely be taken out at the knees, climbed like a tree, and then bowled over. Either way, it is the singular act the can wash away an entire bad day of work, road rage filled commute, or just about anything else.

My dog even had her own form of the run hug.  When I'd get home from the night shift and enter into a pitch black house, I'd hear the thump of Sam jumping off of our bed.  This was followed by a sprint down the steps, a slip-sliding scurry across the kitchen floor, and a lunge for my necktie.  Panting frantically and firmly latched on, she would wag and look at you with her sleepy eyes until satiated, and even then, had to be pried off.

A Pavlovian reflex of pure love.  It has been two weeks since I've seen my family.  I'm waiting for my run hug.