By Gwen Moran
On the floor of my home office, Chloe, a 90-pound Labrador retriever, is lying on my foot, snoring. For most of the morning, she’s been staring accusingly at me and sighing loudly. I have a choice: move and wake her—and risk her resuming that reproachful look—or endure the growing pins-and-needles sensation. Then I think about her sad eyes. Pins and needles it is. Nearby, I also hear our two cats, Whiskers and Ranger, meowing, in searching mode, carefully scanning every corner of the house for her.
This warm September morning, my menagerie’s favorite human—a fair- skinned, blue-eyed 11-year- old girl named Abby— grabbed her backpack and kissed each of them goodbye. They don’t know she climbed aboard a big yellow bus heading for her first day of middle school; they only know that their playmate and companion is gone. And they're not alone in wandering around, feeling a little lost. I can't help but miss her too, wondering how her day's going.
I finally wiggle my foot free from under our slumbering dog and walk softly to the kitchen. I see Whiskers knocking around a cloth mouse—the one Abby usually throws to him. With no one to toss it back, he gives up and walks away. It’s less fun to play alone. Ranger’s lying on the laundry room floor, curled up on one of Abby’s old T-shirts. The house itself feels emptier without our singing, soccer- playing tween to keep us all entertained. During summer’s lazy days, Abby has more time to dote on her furry companions. When she skips rope on the patio, Chloe lies in the grass nearby while the indoor- only cats stare from the patio door. When we head to the park, our pup’s tail and tongue dance happily as she follows her girl’s every move. When Abby returns indoors to read a book or watch television, the cats curl up on her lap with the dog lounging at her feet, forming a content “pack.”
The pets always miss her presence the most. Abby has raised each of them since they were babies, so it’s not surprising they love her best. The kittens, abandoned in our yard at barely one month old by their sick feral mother, spent weeks in Abby’s bathroom, where she dutifully fed them from a plastic syringe every four hours around the clock. The day we visited the farm where Chloe was born, the eight-week-old pup ran to my daughter and chewed on her long hair, practically claiming her.
Now Chloe’s awake from her nap and her head snaps to the door at every passing noise that might signal Abby’s return. I wish there were a way to tell her she’ll burst through the door— precisely at 3:09—sharing tales of her first day before they all settle down in the dining room while she does her homework. Soon enough the four of us will adjust to our new daytime routine. But for now, we’ll be waiting until she returns home so we can have her all to ourselves again.
Gwen Moran is an award-winning writer and creator of Biziversity.com.