The Sleepless Companion

(Contains mention of severe illness)

I can’t sleep. 

Granted, I restlessly napped periodically throughout the day, while Isabelle was visiting Dr. Robinson, but the walk in the park this evening should have tired me out. Now, I lay in bed next to her, listening to her deep shallow breaths, willing the noise to lull me to sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep for many nights. Since the moon was full. The sound of Isabelle getting sick in the toilet before she crawls into bed every night, leaves me feeling unsettled, my stomach twisting into knots. Now, I’m on high alert. She may need me in the middle of the night. I don’t know how to use the little flat shiny device she holds to her ear, but I’m sure I could create enough noise to alert the neighbors down the street in case of an emergency. 

This evening, we walked for what felt like hours, but I could have kept walking for hours more. Today was the first day we visited our favorite trail in months it seemed. The smell of the moldy autumn leaves pierced my nose, as well as the occasional trace of the dark-colored water Isabelle sprays on her wrists and neck every morning, creating a comforting smell to follow. I happily walked alongside her, brushing against her, willing the sun to never set, unsure of when our next walk will be. 

The entirety of our steps were filled with Isabelle’s soft humming and her excited gasps when she caught sight of a butterfly. Butterflies are a good omen, she said. That’s what her grandfather told her. Butterflies that land on your head, mean you’re loved. They seem to always land on Isabelle’s head, and each time, she shrieks with delight. “Eddie, look, I must have a secret admirer,” she’ll say, stopping in her tracks. I smile at this. Little does she know, butterflies land on her head, because I love her so much. 

She also finds caterpillars. Caterpillars that are all black in color predict the upcoming winter will be severe, but caterpillars that are a mix of orange and black, predict a mild winter, consisting of rain and cold mud. Of course, I can’t seem to tell the difference no matter how many of those furry creatures she holds in front of my face, urging me to see the weather forecast for the following season. A few blinks confirming that her prediction is most likely correct proves to satisfy her enough, and she gently places the little creature back on its respected leaf. As for me, I predict the winter by the dryness of the skin in between my toes. The greater amount of cracks lining my dark skin in between each toe, the colder the winter. 

We occasionally rested, the hills of Pennsylvania tiring us out. Isabelle sat on a bench, but I preferred the ground. The chilly concrete chilled my sweaty, hairy skin, and gave me enough energy to resume our walk when Isabelle decided it was time. She brought us water, something I’m thankful for. I cannot carry it myself. She always thinks ahead. I don’t know what I would do without her. She held the water bottle over my mouth for me in a tilted angle, and I carefully caught the flowing liquid on my tongue, avoiding making contact with the rubber spout. Isabelle is frantic about germs, especially mine. “Eddie!” she’ll yell, if I sneak a bite off of her plate when she’s not looking, “you can’t eat that! Peppers aren’t good for you,” she’ll claim in an explanation of protection, but I know peppers would be fine for me to eat, she’s just a germaphobe. Maybe germs are the reason she’s been feeling ill. 

Lately, during our walks, Isabelle calls Mother. I feel her legs tense against me as she dials the number, holding the phone up to her ear. “Hello,” I hear her say, her voice elevating several octaves. “No,” she says. “Yes, I know, but the doctor said,” she explains, huffing her breath. “But I don’t want to move back in,” she argues. “Eddie is my support system,” she exclaims, her voice raising a few octaves more. 

I don’t know what the two of them argue about, but I don’t like Mother. I’ve only met her once, but she smelled like strong chemicals, and she looked at me and said, “what a sweet boy,” but her eyes said something else. Something that I couldn’t pinpoint, and didn’t trust. She stayed for several days, chasing Isabelle around the house, telling her to eat more spinach and complaining about the “dust along the baseboards.” Those things I could tolerate, but she took my place on the couch, plumping her round bottom onto my cushion, telling Isabelle that I don’t “belong up here.” Needless to say, her departure was one for celebration, and the moment Mother lugged her last suitcase through the front door, shooing me and Isabelle away when we tried to help, claiming that Isabelle shouldn’t be carrying heavy things anymore, I pranced around the house, jumping on and off my spot on the couch. Isabelle forced a frown at me and said, “Eddie be nice.” But, I knew she was happy too, because we ate ice cream for dinner. 

Isabelle calling Mother worries me. She only calls when there’s trouble. Trouble as severe as the first time Isabelle brought me home. It was long ago, but I remember it. She carried me to her car, excitedly tasting different names on her tongue. “L-o-u-i-eee,” she tried. I shook my head at her. My father’s name was Louie. “Max?” she asked. No, I replied, nuzzling her neck. Several names later, and we both agreed on Eddie. “Eddie was my grandfather’s name. He had golden hair like you,” she told me, kissing my head and opening the door to her car, securing me safely in her lap. She drove like that for several moments, me overjoyed to be leaving the cold metal building filled with sour smells, and her singing at the top of her lungs, occasionally squeezing me with her free hand. 

Then, I remember seeing a flash of light, and Isabelle’s car spun. It felt like we were spinning forever until we came to a screeching halt. All I can recall after that was a man coming to our rescue, “Are you alright?” he yelled through the broken glass as Isabelle and I sat frozen in our spot, a pillow that had appeared squishing us close together. I tasted something sharp and metallic on my nose, but it wasn’t mine. I looked up to see dark liquid dripping from somewhere on Isabelle’s face. 

Mother was called that day. 

“Damn dog!” Mother had yelled, arriving at the scene. “What were you thinking? You can’t drive like that!” Isabelle was okay, telling me it was just a scratch, but that was the last time Isabelle called Mother until now. Now, she calls her everyday, and I still don’t know who Dog is. 

After Isabelle exchanged goodbyes with Mother, angrily clicking the end button on her phone, we resumed our walk, making our way back down the rolling hills. My feet were tired, and I could tell that Isabelle was tired too. Lately, she has been slower to hop off the couch to walk with me, as if her muscles scream at her to slow down. During our walks she runs out of breath quicker, slowing down to rest her hands on her knees, taking deep gasping breaths in and out. In and out. When that happens, I step in front of her in case she needs a brace of support. 

I worry about her at times, especially lately. She started taking time off of work, telling me that Dr. Robinson said she shouldn’t be treating clients all day. I don’t know who Dr. Robinson is, but I assume it’s the same doctor she was telling Mother about. Dr. Robinson must not know Isabelle like I do. Isabelle loves her job. Coming home from work, she tells me about the sweet old lady who called her daughter after 10 years of not speaking to her and the little boy who finally made a friend at school.

Sometimes I even get to go with her, sitting in a small room that smells like warm cinnamon and is filled with soft sunlight that peeks through the curtains. I sit next to her in a special chair just for me, while she gently speaks to people like Mindy and Adam who sit across from her on a couch. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they laugh. One man who looks to be about Isabelle’s age tells her that he wishes he could have a friend as good as me, always stopping to pat my head before taking his place on the couch. There is one old lady who prefers to speak to Isabelle alone, so I can’t go to work with her on the days she visits. There’s one little girl who loves me, but she always pulls my hair. I try not to cry out in pain, but I can’t help it. The little girl’s sticky fingers get caught, and she tugs and tugs and tugs. “Ouch!” I’ll cry, resulting in Isabelle shushing me, “Eddie, there’s people in the room next to us.” 

The last day that I saw the little girl, Isabelle explained to her in a soft voice that she would no longer be her therapist friend. The little girl belted out in tears, grabbing me, “BUT WHAT ABOUT ETTIE!” she cried running over to me, burying her face into my hair. I don’t remember what Isabelle said next, because the little girl’s cries were so loud, but I do remember the scent of sadness and fear. The same fear I smelled on Isabelle after the man had crashed into her car. 

The same fear that keeps me awake on nights like tonight. 

My thoughts are interrupted when I hear Isabelle rustle next to me. Her back is towards me, but I hear her murmur something. I can’t make it out, but she turns over, facing me. She reaches her arm towards her, and I scoot closer to her. She wraps it around me, but her eyes are closed. She smells of rotten apples, but I don’t mind. I allow myself to close my eyes, but I focus on her breathing.

After some time, Isabelle fidgets. I nuzzle her, letting her know I’m here. This doesn’t seem to soothe her.

She jerks up and starts shaking. Shaking violently. And coughing. She’s sick all over our bed. Red liquid and small chunks that smell of last night’s chicken empty out of her mouth. I stand up, yearning to be of assistance, but I’ve never seen Isabelle do this. My heart is pounding. What do I do? Her face is contorted, and she looks pained, tears streaming silently down her face as her body aggressively shakes. 

“E-d-die, m, my, phone,” she stammers in between breaths. She’s right, I think, scanning the room for her little device.. As much as I hate to admit, we need Mother. Mother has a car that can take us to visit Dr. Robinson. We need her phone to call Mother. 

I search around, spotting the phone on the table. Leaping off the end of the bed to avoid Isabelle’s mess, I run to the table, using my nose to push the bright bottles filled with white beads aside, gingerly grabbing her phone, careful to not let my canines crack the glass. 

“G-give it,” Isabelle demands. She seems to have calmed down, her sickness paused, but tears are still streaming down her face. As for myself, I can’t seem to steady my breath, trying to ignore the pounding in my ears. I drop the phone onto her bed, careful to avoid the mess. 

I watch as she shakily moves her finger on the little device and lifts it to her ear. I can hear the faint sound of Mother’s voice. For the first time I’m glad to hear it. They exchange several words, like “emergency room” and “chemo.” Isabelle stays on the phone, sitting in her own sickness that seems to grow in smell as the clock above Isabelle’s bed ticks. 

I’m frozen next to the bed and Isabelle doesn’t seem to notice. She listens to Mother, but says only a few words. I rest my head on the bed, near her side. The sharp smell hits my nose, but I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, knowing Isabelle gets upset when I’m sick. I think back to the day that I ate my tennis ball. Green liquid seemed to empty out of my stomach for days. 

Minutes later, I hear the sound of the front door open and slam shut and then mother’s yelling voice. She races into the room, bringing the smell of the cold night with her. “Oh Isabelle!” she cries, rushing to the side of the bed, her foot crunching on my tail. I yelp in surprise. “Damn dog,” she yells. “MOVE.” Still unsure of who Dog is, I run out of the room, deciding to wait by the front door, until we leave. 

Mother is a small woman, but she must have used all of her strength to lift Isabelle out of the bed and carry her through the house to the front door. Isabelle hangs limp in Mother’s arms, with her frail arms wrapped around the old woman’s neck. Mother’s face is also contorted and she struggles to remain balanced in order to free a hand and turn the doorknob. I lift my nose up to the knob, attempting to help her, but once again, I hear a demanding “MOVE.” 

I comply and back up to give her space. She manages to open and slam the door without a goodbye from either of them. 

I pace expectantly, waiting for Isabelle to remind Mother that they have forgotten me. But soon, I see daylight peer through the windows. Worry for Isabelle eats at my insides, distracting me from my growing hunger pains. What could have caused this sickness? Was it my fault? Was it because of our walk the previous day?

Night enters through the windows once again, and I am still without Isabelle. I make a mess on the floor. An act eliciting shame for a dog that is trained as well as me. 

Food. I need food. What can I access? I sniff around in the kitchen. There’s crumbs from the night Isabelle cooked chicken. Those will have to do. 

I feel empty without Isabelle. What is my purpose? 

After scrounging the kitchen floor, I take my spot on the couch, and decide to be a good boy like Isabelle always tells me I am. The silence is loud. 

Once I see sunlight again, Mother enters through the door, avoiding  mess on the floor. I jump off the couch, yelling excitedly. I ask her where Isabelle is, but she doesn’t reply, instead pushing past to Isabelle’s room. I follow. 

First, she rips the soiled blankets off of Isabelle’s bed, and throws them to the ground. Then, she grabs a suitcase and fills it with Isabelle’s clothes and shoes and items from the room with the toilet. The little bottles of pills that are scattered throughout the house are thrown into the bag. I’m concerned and continue to ask when Isabelle will be home. And could I also have some kibble? 

She ignores me and continues to fill the suitcase, but I’m persistent. Eventually, she pauses what she’s doing. She turns towards me. 

“She’s sick dog,” I see tears fill her eyes, but she turns back to what she’s doing. Well yes, I know she’s sick, but I thought Dr. Robinson was helping us. And my name is Eddie, I think.

Mother lifts the suitcase off the bed and drags it behind her. She nears the front door, reaching  for the knob, but turns around to face me. I sit like a good boy, so maybe she’ll want to take me this time. 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket and looks at it before lifting it to her ear. “Hello, is this a no-kill shelter?” I cock my ear at this. “Okay, thank you. I should be there this afternoon,” Mother says and brings her phone back to her side, making eye contact with me. 

“I’m sorry dog, but I can’t take care of you like Isabelle can.” 

At that moment, I realized who Dog is. And Mother leaves once again, slamming the door behind her.