The Man in the corner

There’s a little book that caught my eye some years ago. It was called How to Hug a Porcupine. The words on the cover stayed with me: easy ways to love the difficult people in your life. The title itself felt like a parable. Isn’t life full of porcupines? People who bristle, lash out, or hide behind barbs because life has wounded them. Their sharpness isn’t cruelty, it’s armor. But even the porcupine longs to be held. I was reminded of that book during one of Quinn’s and my nursing home visits.

The Man in the Corner

The halls smelled faintly of antiseptic mingling with the sweetness of someone’s untouched lunch tray. Wheelchairs lined the walls, soft voices drifted from the television in the lounge, but in the far corner of the room sat a man I had seen many times before. He was always alone. His arms crossed tightly across his chest, his jaw clenched, eyes set like stone. The nurses told me he rarely spoke. And when he did, his words were often sharp, biting, meant to keep others away. He was a porcupine if I ever saw one.

Quinn didn’t know that. My golden boy sees none of the label’s we humans place on each other. He only knew that there was a soul sitting by himself. His paws tapped gently against the polished floor as he made his way across the room, his blue bandanna swinging slightly with each step. His tail wagged not wildly, but slow and steady, like the rhythm of a heartbeat. When he reached the man’s corner, Quinn didn’t leap forward. Instead, he lowered himself to the ground, front legs stretched out, chin resting on his paws. His whole body said, “I’ll wait. I’ll be here, when you’re ready.”

The man turned his face away, muttering something under his breath. The quills were out. But Quinn stayed. Minutes passed. I watched from a few feet away, saying nothing, just letting the moment unfold. And then, almost imperceptibly, the man shifted. His eyes darted toward Quinn, then away again. A long sigh escaped his chest, as if a little weight had lifted, if only for a second. Then his hand moved. Shaky, uncertain, like it hadn’t reached out in a long, long time. Slowly, almost against his will, he lowered it until it rested on Quinn’s golden head. The transformation was instant. The tension in his shoulders eased, his jaw unclenched, and though his lips didn’t quite form a smile, his eyes softened. Quinn leaned in, not pushing, just allowing.
And in that moment, the porcupine laid down his quills.

The book had it right. Porcupines aren’t mean. They’re scared. Their spines are their protection against a world that has often felt too harsh, too painful. People are the same. Behind every sharp word is often sorrow. Behind every bristling posture is grief, loneliness, or fear. Quinn doesn’t need a book to know this. He embodies it. His patience, his stillness, his unconditional acceptance, they are the hug that porcupines never stop longing for.
What I realized, standing there that day, is that loving difficult people is not about removing their defenses or proving them wrong. It’s about waiting. It’s about presence. It’s about love that asks nothing in return.

Every visit with Quinn is another reminder that the sharpest souls often hide the tenderest hearts. The man in the corner may never greet us with open arms, but on that day, he allowed Quinn close enough to rest against his hand. That was his hug, his way of saying, “I trust you, just a little.” And sometimes, that’s all we are called to do: to love people right where they are, porcupine quills and all.

Closing Reflection
Life is too short to let anger, fear, or pride keep us from one another. Every moment of patience, every act of kindness, every silent offering of love is a way of hugging the porcupines in our lives. Quinn has shown me again and again: you don’t have to pull the quills out. You just have to be gentle enough to wait until they soften. And when they do, love finds its way in.