I have a very healthy bank account —my homebody tendencies are good for something, at least—
so I lock eyes with him and do something completely out of character. I leap off a cliff and hope I’ll
find somewhere safe to land.
“Fair enough,” I say, proud of how level my voice comes out. “I’m not interested in working for
you. I quit. Feel free to dock my final cheque.” I stand and exit the office, ignoring his shouts, my mind
already cataloging the items in my desk as I pass through the halls. The only things I want are the
photo of Birdie and me, and the coffee mug Abigail gave me for my birthday last year.
It takes less than a minute to grab them, then I head for the door. I murmur some goodbyes and
good lucks to the staff that’s left, stopping to assure one co-worker on the verge of a panic attack that
he is more than capable of stepping up, though truthfully, I’m not sure he is.
Maybe I should be more professional about leaving. I should give formal notice, then work out a
leave, but I don’t have to. Long ago, Mr. Williams and I put an agreement in place that if I wanted to
go, I could. No notice needed. And in the decade that followed, that suited us both just fine. So
Callahan’s threats of lawsuits don’t phase me. I may look flighty —okay, sometimes I am— but I’m no
pushover.
I’m outside in the crisp fall air in minutes, photo and mug clutched to my chest. It’s 9:30 on a
Friday morning, and I have absolutely nowhere to go. Nearly without thought, my feet carry me the six
blocks to the dog park. We always came here. It was a brisk walk from my apartment and had the
largest fenced play area in twenty blocks.
I drop onto a bench across from the off-leash area, staring sightlessly at the animals and their
owners. I recognize some of them. When I had Birdie with me, we’d talk. I didn’t have to struggle to
find topics of conversation. We talked about our dogs and the weather and laughed while we watched
them play. Often, those conversations were the only one-on-one human interaction I’d have outside of
work. And when we were done, it was Birdie and me, heading home to our snug little nest.
Now, there’s no reason to go home. No wiggling little tail, no happy yips…nothing. Just an empty
dog bed and the toys I’ve been unable to pick up.
I’m not stupid. I know that she’s just a dog. But I also know that she had all of my heart. That for
twelve years, she loved me when no one else could. She was my family.
And now I have no one.
I feel the tears on my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I’m sad. I’m lost. And I don’t care if
