Staying Home With Lizzie

I know she likes being home, because that is when she spends the most time swaddling me in a blanket or feeding me bits of parsley. She always unlocks the door, and I bounce from wire wall to wire wall in my pen, and when she has thrown her backpack and books to the floor, she always sighs and smiles at me.

"Dog, you will not believe my day." She begins, unwrapping from the layers of coats. I want to say, Lizzie, tell me more! like the guests that come to visit for food and work and talk. She continues, perhaps hearing my thoughts. "My English teacher loved my story, she said she'd post it to the university website tonight. Oh, and remember the boy in math that was offering to tutor? I have a meeting with him soon, so I guess you can say I have hope."

Lizzie always talks to me, and it's nice to hear a voice after the silence of the day. I know she has been worried about the story, the one she made on the Clackity (the hard, warm, flat, and silver thing that makes clicking noises when you stand on its tiles with your fingers or paws). I am glad she is happy about that, and also math, which sounds awful. Lizzie complains about math a lot, and I usually get more parsley for listening.

She wanders over to my pen, and I stand on my hind legs to greet her with my warm, whiskered button of a nose. My little tail stands erect, perfect for Lizzie to flick like she does when she is sad.

"Fresh alfalfa and pellets for my little Dog." She smiles at me, gently tugs on my long ears. I tilt my head in shock. She forgot! How could Lizzie forget?

Lizzie, I want to tell her, because this is a simple part of our daily routine. Lizzie, what about my parsley? Lizzie, how could you forget? I poke at her with my twitching nose. Lizzie, I'm looking for it. Lizzie, where is the parsley?

The dimples on her tan cheeks deepen as she laughs. She sits, crossing her legs, and pulls me out of my pen, my legs dangling over the linoleum floors. Once safely in her lap, the parsley appears in her hand, having been concealed in a pocket somewhere.

Not funny, Lizzie. I want to warn, but my cheeks are stuffed with the pungent and sharp taste of the fresh greens. The curled, kinked leaves are cold and sweet on my soft tongue.

Closing my eyes, I wonder what life would be like without Lizzie. I vaguely remember other furries, my siblings, and a sign advertising twenty five dollars a bunny. Lizzie was young, just out of high school, and had decided that a dog was the perfect thing to keep her company in college. Little did she know, she would adopt me instead. Surely, had I not been swaddled in a towel and tucked into a box, headed for Lizzie's dorm, I would not get parsley grown from the kitchen counter, sharp with the tastes of wilderness.

"Dog," Lizzie says after a quiet moment. "I have more news. The schools are shutting down, online classes beginning Monday."

I munched on my parsley thoughtfully. Monday was a bad word, and Lizzie rarely used it unless naming something horrific. Mostly, this came after weekends when Lizzie had returned to her daily classes, but occasionally this word would come before the weekend had even started.

Lizzie, I tell her, don't be so sad. Monday will be better with me! Online means more Clackity work, means more parsley and more relaxing on the lap of my favorite person. There's a sniff from above, and a salty tear lands on the end of my nose, matting my clean fur. I look up, and rub my chin on her hand, which rests on her crossed ankles.

Lizzie, I say, look at me. You are my human, my girl, and you can do anything. You worked so hard on your story, and you'll work so hard on Monday. If you can stay home and work on your Monday from home, all the more parsley for us to share. The important part is that I am here whether you have math or Mondays, homework or house parties. I'm your dog, and you are my Lizzie.

Lizzie sniffs again, gives a smile. "Dog, no matter what, we'll get through this. You are my Dog, and I am your Lizzie, and no matter what, we can do this together."

Yes. I say. Lizzie, that's exactly what I said. I stand on my hind legs and brace my front paws against the t-shirt pocket on her chest, lick her tears from her face. I love salt, and she loves it when I do this, so it's always a win-win.

Soon, she's laughing and smiling and reaching for the cover of her Clackity, just like I knew she would.

"Come on, Dog. We're writing a story."

Ok, Lizzie! I agree, sprinting to the kitchen and back, jumping with a twist in midair. Let's write a story together.

"Right," Lizzie beams. "Together."

...

"My English teacher posted both! My stories are up!" Lizzie grins at the Clackity screen, which now undoubtedly shows the older couple that visits Lizzie the most.

"Honey, that's great!" The lady says. I know her as Mom, who sneaks me bits of carrot, and the other as Dad, who first gave me watermelon. I love watermelon, though it sticks in my fur with a sweet and messy juice that is difficult to rid myself of.

"We're so proud!" Dad smiles. "And is that Dog?"

Yes! I shout. Hello! I'm here! I pull my face from the warm cave of sweatshirt, ears brushing Lizzie's chin.

"Right here," Lizzie announces, the familiar faces of Mom and Dad cracking up. Humans don't understand how nice sweatshirts are, and in my opinion, don't wear them enough. Lizzie loves them, wearing them day and night and letting me jump inside with her. One of them is white-ish cream, with black sleeves, similar to my own fur coat.

"So, I heard the schools are closing." Lizzie's Mom says. "Is that true?" Wait, what? I look at Lizzie in surprise. She had mentioned something that sounded like this, but I don't recall there being multiple schools. There's another university? Do they have Mondays to?

"Yeah, we're shutting down campus and switching to online school." Lizzie frowns.

Hey, I remind her, poke my nose into her cheek. I'm here to!

"On the upside, that means classes with Dog!" Mom points out.

Thank you, I tell her, looking at the screen.

"Yeah, can't say no to my little doggy helping me with math!" Lizzie beams, her thumbs massaging my cheeks in a slow, gentle rhythm, exactly how I like it.

"Are you going to try and start that book you were thinking about?" Dad asks.

Book? I turn to Lizzie. We've always been a bit busy to write a book, but she has the story board all set if she ever wants to start. I've seen the journal, pasted with scraps of napkins or scrawls of pen. The journal is crucial to the book, containing the characters and the setting details and even words she might use. Lizzie has shown this book to me several times, always sighing and putting it back on the shelf, returning to homework or math or Mondays.

"Um," Lizzie looks down at me.

Lizzie! I say. Why even hesitate? You have time home, you have your journal, you have me! We can write your book, we can use the Clackity, we can develop the plot! This is what you've been waiting for years, you say, an opportunity to set things aside and write like never before. These are you words, Lizzie, and they need to be heard. Your words are important, Lizzie, and you are important. You can do this! Believe in yourself!

Lizzie stares into my eyes, the brown and gold shining as she studies my face. My nose is still, barely twitching every few seconds.

Please, Lizzie. We can do this. Together.

Lizzie sucks her breath in, nods slowly at me. "Okay."

Good, Lizzie. Say the words.

"I'll do it. I can write the book. And we can do this," she looks from me to Mom and Dad. "We can do this, together."