The light comes through the window. I know this light. It means morning. My bed is soft. The carpet is warm where the sun touches it. I stretch, and my claws make small sounds on the floor. The apartment is quiet. Then I hear her. Sarah is moving in the other room. Her feet on the floor. The creak of her bed. I know these sounds. They mean she is awake. My tail starts to move. Thump. Thump. Against the floor. I wait. The door opens. She is there. Her hair is messy. Her eyes are tired. But she sees me. She smiles. "Hey, buddy." Her voice is like warm sunlight. I stand up. My whole body moves now, not just my tail. I cannot help it. She is here. She is awake. The day can begin. She walks past me to the kitchen. I follow. Her scent is strong in the morning—sleep and coffee and something else. Something sharp. I do not know the word for it. But I know what it means. It means she is worried. It means she has too much to do. She pours coffee. The smell fills the room. Dark and bitter. I do not like this smell, but it is her smell. So I sit and I wait. "Who's a good boy?" She does not wait for an answer. She never does. Her hand touches my head. Brief. Warm. Then gone. She is moving again. Faster now. The sharp smell grows stronger. She is getting ready. I know what comes next. The clothes go on. The bag goes over her shoulder. The keys make their sound. Jingle. Jingle. She comes to me. Her hand on my head again. Longer this time. Three seconds. Four. "I'll be back, buddy. Be good." The door opens. Cold air comes in. She is gone. The door closes. I am alone. --- The apartment is different when she is not here. Smaller. The air is still. The sounds from outside seem far away. I go to my spot by the window. The sun is still there, moving across the floor. I watch it. I do not know how long I watch it. Time is different for me. There is only now. And now. And now. The light moves. An inch. Another inch. I smell the air. The apartment smells like her, but the smell is fading. It always fades. By the time she comes back, it will be almost gone. Only the smallest trace left. Like a memory of a memory. A car passes outside. I hear its engine. Then silence. I lay my head on my paws. My eyes grow heavy. But I do not sleep. I wait. This is what I do. This is what I am. I am the one who waits. --- The light has moved far across the floor now. It touches the wall. The wall that has her pictures on it. Pictures of her and people I do not know. People who come sometimes and make loud sounds and touch me when I do not want to be touched. I do not like those people. But she likes them. So I let them touch me. The light keeps moving. The apartment grows dimmer. My stomach makes a sound. I am hungry. But I do not eat. Not yet. She fills my bowl in the morning, and I eat then. This is how it is. This is how it has always been. I stand up. My legs are stiff. I walk in a circle. Then another circle. Then I sit by the door. The door is wood. It has scratches on it. Old scratches. From before I learned not to scratch. I touched the door with my paw once, and she made a sound. A sad sound. She did not like the scratches. So I stopped. But I still sit here. Every day. Waiting for the sound. The sound that means she is back. I close my eyes. I listen. Nothing. The building makes sounds. Pipes. Footsteps above. A door closing somewhere. But not her door. Not her footsteps. I open my eyes. The light is almost gone now. The apartment is shadows and shapes. I know these shapes. The couch. The table. Her chair. They are like old friends. Silent. Still. Waiting with me. --- A sound. My ears lift. My body grows still. A car. No. Not a car. Footsteps. On the stairs. I stand. My tail begins to move. Slow. Then faster. The footsteps grow closer. I know these footsteps. I have heard them a thousand times. The weight of them. The rhythm. It is her. The lock turns. The door opens. She is there. The apartment fills with her. Her scent rushes in—outside air and car exhaust and something sweet. She has been somewhere with food. Her arms are full of bags. "Hey, buddy! Did you miss me?" My tail is a blur now. I cannot stop it. I do not want to stop it. She is here. The waiting is over. She puts down the bags. She kneels. Her arms are around me. Her face is in my fur. I can feel her breath. Warm. Quick. "I'm sorry I'm late. Work was crazy." I do not know what these words mean. But I know her voice. I know her touch. This is enough. She pulls back. She looks at me. Her eyes are tired. But she is smiling. "Who's my good boy? You're my good boy. Yes, you are." Her hands move through my fur. Behind my ears. Under my chin. The places I like best. I lean into her touch. This moment. This is what I wait for. This is why the hours alone do not matter. Because this moment comes. Every time. She comes back. She always comes back. She stands up. She takes the bags to the kitchen. I follow. I always follow. "Let me just put this stuff away, and then we'll go for a walk. Okay, buddy? A nice long walk." I hear the word. Walk. I know this word. It means outside. It means her and me and the world together. I sit by the door. I wait. She moves in the kitchen. Bags rustle. The refrigerator opens and closes. Water runs. These sounds are not for me. But they mean she is here. That is enough. The minutes pass. She is still moving. Still busy. I wait. The light is gone from the window now. The apartment is lit by lamps. Artificial light. Not as warm as the sun. But it is light. And she is here. Finally, she comes to the door. She picks up the leash. The leash that hangs by the door. I know this leash. It means we are going out. Together. "Ready, buddy?" I am always ready. I have been ready all day. She clips the leash to my collar. The metal is cold. The collar is tight. But I do not mind. The collar means I am hers. The leash means we are connected. She opens the door. The night air comes in. Cool. Full of smells. A thousand smells. Other dogs. Other people. Food. Cars. Trees. Life. I step outside. She steps with me. We are together. The waiting is over. For now. --- Later, we are back. The walk was good. She talked to me. I did not understand the words, but I understood the tone. She was happy. Or trying to be happy. I could smell something else under the happiness. Something tired. Something sad. But she was with me. That was what mattered. Now she sits on the couch. The TV makes sounds and shows moving pictures. I do not understand the pictures. But I lie at her feet. Her hand rests on my back. Sometimes it moves. A gentle stroke. Sometimes it is still. I am content. This is my life. The waiting. The return. The brief moments of being together. Then sleep. Then morning. Then it begins again. I do not question it. I do not wonder if there is more. There is her. There is me. There is the waiting. It is enough. It has to be enough. Her hand stops moving. Her breathing slows. She is falling asleep. The TV is still on. The light flickers across her face. I lift my head. I look at her. Her eyes are closed. Her mouth is slightly open. She looks peaceful. Younger than when she is awake. I lay my head back down. I close my eyes. Tomorrow will be the same. She will leave. I will wait. She will return. This is what I know. This is what I am. The one who waits. The one who loves. The one who stays. And somewhere in the dark, in the quiet spaces between her breaths and the TV's murmur, something stirs. Something I cannot name. Something I cannot see. But I feel it. A question. Small. Almost nothing. Is this enough? I push the question away. It has no answer. It does not matter. She is here. I am here. We are together. That is enough. It has to be. I sleep.