I went on with my days and nights, doing little things to keep myself busy. Then one night, months later, a familiar, soft scratching woke me. I crept down the dark hallway in my robe and opened the bedroom door a fraction.
There, on the wardrobe, the mother sat exactly where she’d always been. This time there were three new, tiny pups snuggled beside her — blind, warm, and no larger than my thumb. They were brand-new lives, born under my roof.
I stood in the doorway for a long time, hardly daring to breathe. When I finally whispered, “You’re back,” it felt like saying hello to an old friend.
I closed the door gently and went downstairs to turn the heater on. Rain tapped against the windows and, from somewhere in the early morning dark, birds started their hesitant songs. I made a fresh pot of tea and called Mark to tell him the good news.
He told me to make sure the window was left slightly open for their comings and goings and to keep the food on the sill. I did exactly that. For the first time in years, I felt like I had a small, sensible routine that mattered.
