Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

A necessary consequence of coming back to Philly on the bus this past weekend was that my dog, Una, is staying with my dad for the week. I'll pick her up when I return to Central Pennsylvania for my class reunion this coming weekend.

We did this because I was dropping off Red Arrow, my 1988 Ford Ranger, in order to sell it in a rural area, where my dad and I think we're more likely to find a buyer.

Una doesn't mind staying with Dad. She sees it as a sort of vacation, but she no doubt misses me. My dad says that she always watches out the window for my return.

Things are awfully quiet here without her. Although lately she's been demanding a lot of attention out of jealousy over The Gryphon, I still miss that silly doggie.

The beanbag chair she's claimed as her own lies pathetically empty, with her two favorite toys lying on it, bored.

The pen (once a training device and now her den), where she often prefers to hang out on rainy days like today, is conspicuously empty.

My bed, for once, is free of dog toys.

The towels in the bathroom remain neatly folded on the rack, instead of being pulled down onto the floor, the way Una likes to do when I leave the apartment.

Nobody runs to the front door when there's a noise on the porch. Nobody runs around the house wagging her tail when I come home. Nobody comes up to me while I'm working and stares at me until I pet her. Nobody asks for dog treats, or delicately munches on food (carried one piece at a time across the room and eaten separately).

Nobody gets excited every time I put shoes on, thinking we're going somewhere. No one runs over to me when I seem upset and licks my hand, comfortingly.

And while at first, the quiet and the lack of responsibility (no walks, no feeding) seemed refreshing, now those are the very things I miss.

Not the towel thing, though. I can do without that.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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