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The alarm goes off at 5:10 AM, same as always. Kojo's already awake, has been for the past few minutes, watching the blue-gray light bleed across the bedroom floor. Outside, an American Goldfinch hops in the backyard. Kojo follows the yellow patch like prey, though he's too comfortable to move from his spot.
In bed, Dad is awake. And just like Kojo, he's been awake since way before the alarm went off. Kojo knew. He knows a lot of things, the way dogs know. From the sounds or the smells, or simply from the way things don't feel quite right, even when he can't understand why.
Dad’s hand shoots out to silence the alarm.
Kojo stretches, shakes, and gets up from his bed. His nails click against the hardwood as he follows Dad to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. This is their routine now. Just the two of them. Dad makes coffee, and Kojo waits by his food bowl.
Now, mornings are a bit quieter. Dad doesn’t talk much.
But Kojo is a good companion and despite all the birds crossing the windows, or the interesting sounds bleeding inside (the airplane crossing right over their house, the cars going down the road, and two other annoying dogs barking in their houses), Kojo is patient.
Dad pours the kibble, and Kojo waits for his command.
Most mornings, the command comes a bit quicker. But today, for some reason, Dad’s focus is somewhere else. And Kojo is as curious as he is patient. He takes Dad in, leaning against the counter, holding his mug with one hand. And then, follows his gaze. Right there, on the cabinet.
Kojo whines, and Dad says his command. But Kojo isn't that hungry. He just misses her, too.
“You can eat, now,” Dad explains, his voice rough with sleep and something else.
Kojo doesn't really know the word for it, but he feels it too. Heavy in his chest. He bets it feels even worse in Dad's.
And Kojo eats, but his eyes dart up again because he can't help but keep watch on Dad. And as Dad sips his coffee, he can't help but stare at the mug in the cabinet. The one with the little cartoon dog that looks nothing like Kojo, but she always said it did. She'd cradle it in both hands, hair still damp from the shower, smiling at Dad from the breakfast bar.
Dad doesn't reach for it. Kojo doesn't remember the last time someone touched it.
Kojo also doesn't remember the last time he tripped over her shoes in the hallway, or played with one of her hair ties that he would always find scattered across every surface. She would complain to him about all the missing ties, and Kojo would just bark and lick her hands. Someday, if she ever comes back, he will show her where he keeps all the treasures he found. The ties, lip balms, bobby pins and some socks, too.
Under the bed, or in the crevices between furniture, Kojo still finds some things, sometimes. It’s like she left little parts of herself for him to find around the house, so he would never forget her. If he knew how to speak, he’d tell her that’s impossible.
But when she was around, the treasures were bigger. A jacket draped over a chair, a book face-down on the coffee table, her purse sitting on the couch, her thermos on the counter. Dad would pretend to be annoyed, would make comments about living with a tornado, but his eyes were soft when he said it.
Now, everything has a place.
And Kojo misses the mess.
He also misses the sound of her key in the lock, so much louder than Dad's because she has all kinds of keychains. He misses her calling out, "Where's my baby?" in that bright, bubbling voice that made his whole body wiggle. She always greeted him first. Always. Dad used to joke about it, would stand there with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised until she finally looked up and grinned, "Oh, hi babe," like she'd just noticed him. Then she'd kiss him, and Dad would forget he was supposed to be offended.
And he misses watching them in the kitchen. One of them cooking and the other hovering nearby, too close to be practical. The way they would argue about anything—the amount of spices, or the fact they'd been eating too much fish, or that they hadn't been eating enough veggies, and she would mumble something like "see how good we are at arguing?" and the stove would be turned off, and they would shoo Kojo to another room.
Now, he follows Dad everywhere.
Kojo sits by the shower watching the droplets descending down the shower’s glass door, then lies down on the warm bedroom floor as Dad gets dressed for work. It's all so quick now, Kojo doesn't have time to rest.
Before, Dad took his time. She would be in bed, propped up on one elbow, watching him with this look on her face that almost made Kojo jealous. She'd say something that would make Dad's ears go red, and he'd try to shush her, but she'd laugh and somehow, Dad would end up back in bed for "just five more minutes" that turned into fifteen.
And Kojo? Well, Kojo would be shooed out of the bedroom.
Not that he minded.
Kojo is a happy dog. He is. He loves Dad and the house and the way the sun warms the floors and the birds in the backyard.
But Dad doesn't smell right anymore. And the house is too silent. And Kojo wants more.
She visited. Once, she even slept over, and Kojo got so excited it made her smile disappear from her face when she noticed. And Kojo was never great at reading humans, but he knew enough to understand he wasn't supposed to be that happy.
Dad got sadder after that night.
And when she came back, she was the one who was sad.
Kojo heard her cry in the bathroom and saw Dad hug her, kiss her forehead, and promise it would be okay.
Kojo didn't know what that was about, but she didn't come back after that.
He wonders why.
As Dad leaves the house with his duffel under his shoulder and the promise he will come back from work, Kojo woofs back and sits by the door. He doesn’t move until he hears the truck disappear down the road.
Then, he settles into the couch cushion, resting his chin on his paws. If he closes his eyes, he can almost smell her—flowers and vanilla and coffee and the faint tang of the dry cleaning solution from her uniforms. Can almost hear her laugh, bright and unselfconscious, the sound that used to fill every corner of this house and make Dad's eyes brighten.
Can almost believe she'll walk through that door tonight, drop her bag in the hallway, and call out for him like she always did.
But she won't.
And Dad will come home to the clean, quiet house and the dog who loves him, and it will be enough to survive but not enough to live.
✼ ✼ ✼
At the middle of the morning, after a nap and more bird watching, Kojo gets bored.
He wanders through the house. The garage door is open, so he enters. He always finds something interesting there. Tools. Or Dad's old shoes. Or threatening bags of dirt for the backyard that Kojo needs to fight.
Instead, he finds cardboard. Cardboard boxes!
The last time Dad brought something like this home, it meant weeks of packing and moving to this place. And don't get him wrong, Kojo loves this house, but he didn't know it back in the old one. He barks at the piles of cardboard.
He won’t leave this house and all the pretty birds!
Plus, if they do, if she comes back home, who’s gonna be here to welcome her?
Kojo barks. And barks again. They don’t move, don’t answer, don’t disappear. He paws at one. Nothing. He barks louder, sharper, the kind of bark that usually brings Dad running.
But Dad isn’t home.
This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. They can’t leave. They can’t pack up and go somewhere else. What if she comes back and the house is empty? What if she shows up with her loud keys and her bright voice and no one is here to greet her?
He barks at the folded boxes until his bark gets rough. Paces between them and the door leading back into the house. Returns to bark some more. By the time he falls asleep in the garage, keeping the boxes vigilant, he can only dream of a new house with no birds and no Lucy.
Kojo spends the rest of the day upset.
He doesn't eat his afternoon treat when the automatic feeder dispenses it. Doesn't settle in his usual sunny spot by the window. Just paces, restless and anxious, checking the front door, checking the garage, checking the door again.
The hours stretch long and strange.
Kojo wishes she could talk, so he could tell Dad they don’t need to leave. That whatever happened can be fixed, and she can come back, and they can be together. Kojo is only a dog. He can’t talk or understand the complexity of human relationships, but he understands love, and he’s seen it around this house.
✼ ✼ ✼
As Dad’s truck finally pulls into the driveway, it’s already the next day. From the moment he hears the engine, until he’s sentinel at the door, it takes just a couple of seconds. He has so many questions. When did he get them? Why did he get them? How is he capable of—
Oh. Wait.
Dad’s cologne is not this floral. In fact, Dad’s cologne is not floral at all.
Oh!
Kojo’s entire body goes rigid for just a second. For a being that can’t understand emotions, he goes through all of them surprisingly fast. Confusion, then disbelief, then, finally, joy. They all crash together as the door opens and—
“Hi, baby!”
And he explodes into movement, launching himself at her, almost knocking her backwards into Dad, Kojo’s whole body wiggling so hard he might shake apart. She’s laughing, and he’s licking her face, her hands, anywhere he can reach because she’s here! And she’s as excited as he is!
“Oh my, I missed you too!”
Kojo should let her hug him or pet him, but there’s too much energy rushing through him. He can’t stay still, he’s too happy, too relieved. She’s here. She’s real. And Dad—Where’s Dad?
Over them, still outside, because Kojo didn’t even give them the chance of entering the house, Dad is… smiling. Smiling so big, Kojo gets a warm feeling in his chest and finally relaxes.
"Okay, okay. Calm down, Kojo," Dad says, and his voice is different. Lighter. The heavy thing isn't pressing on it anymore. Kojo tries it too, with a small woof. Oh, he doesn’t feel it either. "What? She’s here to stay. Can I just have Lucy for a second?"
Here to stay.
Kojo hears it but doesn't fully process it because he's too busy trying to make sure she’s still excited and happy, and he’s not doing anything wrong by being this excited. But then Dad's hand is on her arm, pulling her up, pulling her close, and they're looking at each other the way they used to. The way that made the air feel warm and soft and safe.
They disappear into the hallway, and Kojo trots after them, but the bedroom door closes gently on his face.
Kojo isn’t mad at all.
He settles in the hallway, chin on his paws. He can hear them in there. Quiet voices, laughter, and some noises that used to drive him worried, but now he knows are just the sound of everything being okay again.
✼ ✼ ✼
The next morning, Kojo wakes up on the couch because he wasn’t allowed in the bedroom the whole night. He woke up every time the bedroom door opened, but every time, Dad would just shake his head and send him back to the couch.
Selfish Dad.
Is not that he’s mad about it! He’s just… jealous? He wants a bit of her, too!
So, as the door opens again, this time with the sun already up and the house taken by the soft morning light, Kojo jumps from the couch and pads quietly into the hallway.
That’s when he sees them.
Dad and Lucy, wrapped in a sheet, are standing in the hallway looking into the garage. They're pressed close together, and Kojo can see their bare shoulders, the way the sheet pools around Lucy’s feet. Her hair is messy and wild in the way it gets when she’s just woken up. Dad's arm is around her, holding the sheet closed, holding her close.
Kojo sits, watching. His little tail does a slow, content wag.
"What were you gonna do if I said no?" Lucy asks, her voice soft and still rough with sleep and with the most radiant smile.
Dad is quiet for a moment. Then, "I didn't have a plan for that.”
Lucy turns her head to look up at him. "You're adorable."
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t want to interfere, so he doesn’t move, but the scenario is so warm and soft, and it feels so right, he can’t contain it inside. As they kiss, Kojo’s head tilts in that way it does when he’s content, and the tiniest whine comes through his mouth.
"You're also gonna need more boxes.”
And then she's moving, the sheet slipping as she rushes back toward the bedroom, laughing. Dad stands there for just a second, and Kojo can see it on him—the peace of waking up feeling whole. Shoulders down, and his breath steady and slow.
And then, Dad goes chasing after her. Kojo barks, one sharp, happy bark that echoes through the house, and Dad just smiles at him as he closes the bedroom door.
Kojo doesn't mind.
He trots to his food bowl, suddenly starving. The house smells right again. The sun is warming the floors. The birds are starting to sing in the backyard.
And she's here to stay.
Kojo is a happy dog.
He really, truly is.