Alone

Today (meaning September 9th) was my dog's birthday. My first dog, Terry, I mean. He was put up for adoption about two and a half years ago because my mom got allergic to him. Interestingly, the writing activity today was to write about a time we felt alone.


After her mother left for grocery shopping, she switched off the TV and got up, pulling herself through the still air. She wandered the house aimlessly. She wandered past the empty food bowl set on the kitchen floor. She wandered past the unoccupied dog house in the hallway. She wandered past toys not being played with, a half-consumed chew bone that would never be finished, and an old leash that would never be taken out again. She wandered and wandered, going twice around the living room, through the kitchen, past the dining room, and down the hallway until she'd wandered into her room.

The whole house was quiet--more quiet than it had ever been in seven years. It was so quiet, the stillness was pressing in, digging in, closing in. She sat on the floor, cross-legged by the unoccupied dog bed that made her feel hollowed out inside. Slowly, her gut was crumbling in on itself. It kept crumbling and crumbling and crumbling, until it caved in on itself and an empty, endless pit had been carved in. The pit was growing so huge, even memories couldn't fill it. Slowly it grew deeper and deeper, darker and emptier until she fell in too, and she was sitting at the bottom of the pit, next to her memories.

Where did he go?

Who took him home? Was he tired or hungry, cold, or feeling abandoned by the only close people he'd known his entire life? Or was he sleeping, dreaming, content, satisfied? Though her dog was the one who'd been left at the shelter, she felt like she was the one being left behind.

Where did he go?

He'd been taken to a new home, but she hadn't gone anywhere.