An Unwelcome Goodbye

Sigh. There she goes again. I allow my head to rest between my two front paws, as I press my nose to the cold glass to watch her leave. Every morning I sit here after she closes the door behind her. This spot on the couch is well worn in, the cushion molded to my shape. When I was a pup, she used to scold me, her thundering tone clearly communicating that I should get down. I wore her down though. It took me months, but eventually she gave up and let me have my spot. I never understood why she didn’t want me up there; it puzzled me to no end. Sure, if I helped myself to a bite of her sandwich, I could understand her using that booming tone that never failed to send my tail between my legs. That just makes sense. I don’t like to share my food either. If she ever stuck her face in my bowl and stole even just one piece of my kibble, my delicious kibble, well, I’d be appalled to say the least. But the couch? C’mon. If she would just sit up here and experience for herself the pillowy softness that envelopes me when I plunk down up here, she might understand. For some unfathomable reason, she sits on the flat part of the couch, not up top like me. I tried to get her to join me more than once- I don’t mind sharing after all- but, well, that lead to the unfortunate shirt tearing incident that we do not speak of. Her loss I suppose; I’ll enjoy this spot all to myself. 

               The glass is frosty against my nose, but I don’t move as I watch her struggle with the gate, her arms piled high with books. Gates: another ridiculously unnecessary concept, am I right? About a year ago, she left the gate open and I headed out into the neighbourhood. I can still vividly picture the terror on her face as she tore around the corner, screeching my name. I mean, I was just going to visit the neighbours. They have that one dog who’s always barking obscenities at me, and I was going to show him what’s what. Maybe visit the little boy next door who is always trying to pet me through the fence. I would have been back in an hour. Two hours tops. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was, but I trotted back to calm her down. I don’t like it when she is upset.

               I hear the distinctive “’beep” as she approaches her car, and for just a moment I can envision myself with my head out the window, enjoying the glorious freedom of my jowls flapping in the gusty wind. But that won’t come until later. For now, she will zoom out of the drive and not return for, like, forever. Where on earth she goes all day, I have absolutely no idea. I have some theories of course, but I’ve yet to prove any of them. At first, I thought maybe she was going to the treat store and planning to bring me back some well-earned treats. After all, I’m a good girl, so she’s always telling me. Sadly, after weeks of bitter disappointment when she came in with no extra treats for me, I had to abandon that theory. Just a pup dream after all.

               As the engine roars to life and she zips out of the driveway, beyond my sight, I settle in for a long haul. It will be hours before she returns. I reflect on our morning together, which was mostly business as usual. Had she seemed just a little less enthused when I had woken her? Normally she loves it when I press my cold, wet nose into her flesh. I can tell. It gets her out of bed much more efficiently than that infernal siren that came from the alarm clock that she used to use. Now I wake her up. That thing, she can snooze, but I am much more persistent. And helpful.

               Alright, time to settle in for my morning nap. It’s been a long morning after all; waking up, snuggling, guarding the shower door, pooping, eating and bidding my human an enthusiastic farewell. I deserve a nap. I plop down off of the couch and move to the bedroom, to the comfiest bed in the house. My human thinks it is hers, but we both know she is fooling herself. I curl around myself and let my eyelids become heavy, eventually drifting all the way shut, and I fall into a blissful nap.

               Clunk! I bolt up, my limbs instantly rigid. What was that? Have I overslept? Is my human home already? No, she can’t be. I’m not hungry yet. I’m always hungry when she gets home, and I’m never sleeping; I pride myself on my punctuality. Hmm. I leap off the bed and tear down the stairs to investigate. It could be the neighbour; sometimes he comes and goes at odd hours. A weird one, he is. On one hand, he is nice enough to slip a treat over the fence every now and again; on the other hand, he is crazy enough to house one of those wicked cat creatures, so I am undecided about him. Still, I clearly need to check this out, so I leap back to my perch on the couch. Peering out the window, I’m shocked to see my human making her way up the sidewalk. Oh boy! Leaping from the couch, clearing the coffee table in the process, I frantically dart across the room to the door. My limbs end up tangling in my frantic dash, and I fall once, but I rebound quickly and beat my human to the door. The telltale click of the lock turning sounds and I prepare myself to greet her. She loves it when I greet her with a leap. She enters and a flurry of pets and love ensues, until I finally let her through to drop her stuff on the table. What was she doing here so early? She wasn’t due home for hours. It’s odd, but I am just so happy she is home. I will miss my second nap this afternoon, but I can overlook that. I’m quite generous that way. She makes her way to the couch, and I follow, as any good floof would. Settling in, she lets out a long, frustrated sigh. I, of course, take this as an invitation and curl in beside her. She begins stroking my head just behind my ear, the way I like, and I curl into her lap, just the way she likes. We’re a good team, her and I. She surprises me by flicking on the talking box; this doesn’t usually happen until well after dark. Excellent, this means I will get a chance to have my second nap after all. The noise fades as I drift into a content sleep.

               I wake the next morning, ready for my morning duties. The extra time with my human yesterday had been glorious, but I know it’s not the weekend yet, and I still have a job to do. I dutifully nuzzle my snout under the covers to wake her up. She bristles but doesn’t move to wake and get out of bed as she usually would. This is unusual; perhaps I need to try harder. Determined not to let her down, I nuzzle in further, pressing my wet nose against her stomach. She bristles again, but instead of getting up, she reaches her arm around and brings me closer to her body. Cautious, I snuggle in, unsure of this change in routine, but loving the snuggles. My human doesn’t get up for another two hours, which is most unusual. The snuggles are great, but holy am I hungry. It takes me a while, but I convince her to get out of bed and feed me. Thinking I must have just been up early this morning, I make my way to the bathroom to guard the door while she showers. She’s not there though. Odd. I trot down the stairs and find her curled up on the couch. Most unusual indeed. This is not at all her routine. She whistles and pats the space next to her, so I jump up and curl in. I must have been mistaken about which day it was. It is obviously the weekend; the glorious two days where I get to spend the whole day with my human. Satisfied, I settle in for some weekending.

               It was a glorious weekend, as per usual, but she shocks me again by not waking up and leaving at her usual time. What is going on here? This continues for several days, and I begin to believe that my soulful puppy eyes have finally convinced her not to abandon me for hours each weekday. My ploy must have finally worked, which must mean that it is just a matter of time before I have her convinced to bring me armfuls of treats every day. Excellent.

               The days go on much the same as weekends would. I am overjoyed with the constant company. I find I can keep up with my daily naps, while still spending more time with my human. We play and nap and eat and walk. She does spend a lot more time in front of the talking box than before, but it means more snuggles for me, so I’m cool with it!

               One morning, she returns home with a bag that rattles, which leads me to assume that the contents are for me. Anything that rattles or squeaks is obviously for me. To my blatant dismay, she keeps the contents for herself, lining the several small containers up on the counter in a precise line. Each container has similar markings plastered across the front, but of course I can’t read. I memorize the markings anyways, thinking they may be of some importance. For several days, she dutifully eats one of the small treats, all different colors and sizes, out of each individual container every morning, followed by a swig of water. Not how I like to enjoy my treats, but to each their own I suppose. I’m a little miffed that she won’t share with me, but I suppose she also deserves treats; after all, she is a very nice lady. And she never eats my treats.

               About a week later, I realize that her smell has changed. Not completely, but it’s off. I don’t like it. I’ve grown quite accustomed to her usual smell, and I don’t want it to change. After some serious detective work, I realize that the culprit must be these new treats she is eating. That’s the only thing I can think of that has changed. She doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy them when she takes them, usually screwing her face into an unpleasant pucker after, and now I know why. They are no good for her. I implore her to stop taking them, but she isn’t listening. Nothing I do seems to convince her that these are clearly not the treats for her. I become so desperate to reveal to her my new knowledge, that I put my paws up on the counter, a place that puppy me had quickly learned I was forbidden to go, and grab a container. In my haste to discreetly dispose of them, I carelessly tear the lid off. The small treats clatter across the floor, scattering in all directions. I know the noise will alert my human and that I need to think fast, so I decide to eat them all. Better me than her; I would do anything to get her back to normal. However, before I can carry out my selfless plan, she bolts into the kitchen to see my handiwork. In a fury, she grabs my collar and throws me outside. Disheartened, I curl up near the door, awaiting her to let me back in.

               Hours later, she lets me back in and envelopes me in a warm embrace that lets me know that she is sorry for leaving me out there for so long. Her fury has dissolved into regret. I forgive her. I always do.

               Over the next weeks, we stop walking every day. I am mildly horrified but try to keep it to myself so as not to upset her. She seems despondent enough. Walks we do take are sporadic and short. I don’t understand; is she still mad at me? Have I done something wrong? But that can’t be it. We still snuggle all the time, so I know she still loves me. I deduce that she must be tired. Or sick? If only I could read the marking on those containers; I knew that would help me deduce what was wrong. I don’t know how to help her; I just want things to go back to normal. They have to.

               I wake one morning to find she isn’t in bed anymore. I take her being awake earlier than me as a promising sign, and trot downstairs to find her on the couch. Instead, I find her stacking some things in a pile near the door. Curious, I move to investigate. I find it to be a pile of my stuff. My fluffy bed I never sleep on, three of my balls, a bag of kibble and my toys. Odd. Perhaps we were going on a trip? We used to do that quite frequently. Still, I can’t shake the sense of unease that settles in. Her shoulders tense up as she notices me peering at her. She gives me a quick pat and puts my food bowl down. I am comforted by this and settle in to munch. This feels normal. Until she begins carrying my stuff outside and I am reminded of the weird pile by the door. As I finish my bowl, I hear voices mumbling to one another outside. I hear my human’s, but don’t recognize the second. On alert, I stand near the door waiting to figure out what is going on. She comes back in and closes the door, reaching down to stroke my fur softly. She whispers in my ear, a sweet sound, but I can hear the hurting behind the words. She can’t fool me; I know her too well. I try to gaze up at her, implore her to tell me what is wrong, but she refuses to meet my eyes, instead burying her head in my fur. Unable to hold it in, she begins to shake with sobs. It is going to be okay human. I know I can fix this; I can always stop her from crying. My tail starts to wag as I begin licking her furiously. This always works. She smiles, but I can see the tears continue to fall. Reaching towards me, she clips my collar and leash around my neck. A walk? Not trusting the situation, I follow her outside, through the gate. There is a car parked in our driveway, one I’ve never seen before. Standing next to the car is a tall man. I sniff, realizing quickly that I have definitely never met this man before. He opens the door, but I don’t want to get in. I can’t put my paw on why, but I know that something is very wrong. I turn back to my human, eyes begging her to explain, to make this make sense. She looks at me knowingly, like she wants to make it better, but pulls me into the car. I resist, but she wins. The door closes behind me with a finality. On the seat beside me, I notice all my things. Her and the man exchange words and one brief, but fierce, hug. She steps back and the man gets into the car. Why isn’t my human getting in as well? I never go anywhere without her. I feel the car slip into reverse. Frantic, I leap into the front seat, my paws landing on the dash. Wait please sir. My human isn’t in the vehicle yet. Can’t he see that she isn’t here. I let out one sharp bark to bring the man to his senses. The sound reverberates through the car and I can see my human hear it. It hits her like a slap in the face and she flinches. She looks me in the eye, and I can see the sadness radiating off her in painful waves. She doesn’t want me to go. So why is she sending me away? My heart beats frantically as the car reaches the end of the drive. She waves her hand at me, a sign I have come to recognize means goodbye when she leaves for the day. So why do I feel like this isn’t goodbye for the day? The man pushes on the accelerator, and we drive away from my house. From my human. Something has changed in the last weeks, this much I know. I sense I will not be coming back to this house. My home. Sadness hits me and knocks me down like a powerful wave. Why would my human send me away like this? What have I done wrong? But then I recall the last look in her eye. That wasn’t the look of someone who was out to hurt me. Somehow, deep down, I can feel that she was doing what was best for me. I can’t understand how this is best for me, but I just know it. My thoughts turn to those strange treats and the markings on each container. If only I could decode what those markings mean, then I might just understand. I can picture it clear as day: LEUKEMIA. Ohhh, if only I knew what it meant. The car turns the corner and the house disappears from view. Goodbye human