I Was So Happy

I roll onto my back on the rug and reach just the right spot. The hissy thing sits on top of the counter silently judging me. She's not the nicest thing, but she's fun to chase! I'm lapping up the last of my water bowl when I hear a car pull up.

"That's strange," I think. Usually Sophie isn't home until after my second afternoon nap. I'll take it. She slouches slightly as she walks in, but I don't mind. I run up to her, my tag swinging rapidly from side to side. She disregards my hello and instead slams the door and walks off. I'm confused, but excited that she is home. I go after her, but she goes into the torture room. I hear her turn on the water and make loud sad noises. Kind of like a bark stuck in my woof box.

When she emerges, in sweats and an old t-shirt, I run up to her with our favorite toy, a ratty blue monkey with white stripes, but she simply brushes me off. She slouches down on the couch and turns on the TV. When I hear the loud sound followed by the red smudge, I know it is my turn to sit down on my bed and take a nap. I happily oblige.

She sits there for longer than normal. A few naps worth. The sun goes down and she forgets to feed me dinner. I don't mind, as long as she is home. She sleeps on the couch. I don't remember her eating dinner. She wakes up a nap or two later with wet stuff on her face, screaming. She gets up and paces. I pace with her and wag happily, I love walking by her side. Sophie doesn't acknowledge me, which is upsetting but not entirely abnormal.

She grabs something from the fridge and drinks a lot of it before going back to sleep. She doesn't wake up the next morning. I'm not worried, she takes a lot of long naps. I'm starting to get hungry, but I won't bark about it. She continues her new schedule of eating, drinking, sleeping, and face wetting. I stay near her, content as ever. She has never been home this much before. I revel in her company, even if it is not as happy a company as usual.

A few days later, she stops suddenly. She stops eating and drinking. She stops sleeping. She sits on the floor and stares at the wall. I lay down next to her and put my head in her lap. She doesn't even notice. Eventually, she gets up and sits at her desk. Taking out a notebook, she writes for naps on end. I start to feel feverish and distant due to my lack of food. While in one of her writing trances, I sneak into the basement and rip open one of the bags of food. I eat. She writes. It continues like this for days.

Into her second week home, Sophie gets a phone call. She closes her eyes as if bracing herself, and picks up. The voice on the other side is distant from my spot on the floor, but I recognize it as John. He came over a lot before all of this started. He made Sophie happy... most of the time. Now he is yelling. And so is she. She is screaming. It goes on for hours. When she finally stops yelling, she wipes her face dry and leaves. I am sad to see her leave, but I am happy for her. She needed to go outside. Like a walk. I haven't had a walk in a while.

When she returns, she carefully rips out the pages and pages of writings, separates them into four different envelopes, and gets dressed. She changes out of sweats for the first time in weeks. When she emerges from her room she wears a dark blue dress. It drapes softly over her hollow figure. A shadow of the person she once was. She has put on a full face of makeup and her hair is styled in a neat braid that falls on her left shoulder. I wonder what the occasion might be. She looks at me softly and speaks to me for the first time since she returned home that sullen afternoon.

"I'm sorry buddy," she whispers, "I'm so sorry. Someone will come soon and they will take care of you".

I look up at her and hear a soft whine rumble in my throat. She put me in my crate with a bowl of food and water. The small blue monkey propped up against a brand new bone.

Slowly, she reaches into a bag that has appeared on the table. She takes out a smooth silver stick. She presses something that clicks into place. Or out of place maybe? She places her letters on the table next to her and kneels on the floor facing away from me. Her hand shakes as she places the stick against her temple. Pulls a trigger. And falls. Red, sticky stuff covers the white carpet. She is silent. The red spreads and I notice that some of it has splattered onto the nearby letters. I howl.

A neighbor's dog starts howling back. Soon the neighborhood is covered in a blanket of noise. I hear a pounding on the door. I stop. Let out a single, deep bark. More pounding. Nothing. An hour later, Sophie's mom shows up screaming bloody murder. I fight the urge to bark. She runs to what's left of Sophie. Screaming and crying. She blubbers through dozens of phone calls, none of which I have the heart to listen to. I was so happy she was home. I was so happy. I was.

More people show up. A pensive man shows up and takes Sophie away. I am taken out of my crate and taken to a house I recognize as Sophie's best friend's. She breaks down at the sight of me. I lick her hand and mourn with her. I don't know what to do. But I am here. I befriend Sophie's friend's dog. He stays with me closely over the next few weeks. I adjust to this new life. But I don't want to. I wish that I didn't have to. I'm so tired. I miss Sophie. And I was so happy.