The Princess and the Poodle

            I remember the day I met her. She was a human puppy. She was this little confused ball of energy, baffled at the glorious world around her. She was like me, and I loved her from the very first second. When they brought me home, she threw her arms around me a little too tightly and screamed, “Doggy!”

            I watched as her words became more complicated. She used to read me books – most of them were about talking animals of some kind, and she loved to read me stories about dogs. And she watched as I learned more tricks and commands, became the dog the family always wanted. She was proud of me, and she loved me from the second she knew how.

            It wasn’t long before I was bigger than her; she’d barely grown at all. Humans grow so slowly. Even still, she managed to send me to the vet on a couple occasions when she’d thrown a blanket over me and tried to ride me like a pony. Her parents hated to leave us unsupervised, but we hated to be apart. I still loved that little girl.

            The day that she started school was one of the worst of my life. I tried to get in the car with them, but her mom pushed me out and locked me in the yard. Nine hours she was gone that day, and for 180 days a year the girl was gone like that. The girl that I’d grown up with, the girl I loved. But at least she loved me when she was here.

            They made it up to me when they finally got her a big girl bed. My own bed went abandoned after that. Every night when she curled up under the bright pink covers I was there at her side, making sure nothing happened to her. There’s nothing as wonderful as sleeping next to the one you love.

            But then something changed. Something small at first, but it only got bigger. She didn’t look like a little girl anymore. Her covers changed from pink to blue. Her bed got bigger, but I was less welcome. There was this boy, you see, and while she didn’t love me less, she loved him more. She started to close her door when she came home from school, leaving me outside, waiting.

            Last year summer came again, ending the train of days with nine hour absences I loathed. She was home more. She loved me more. But as the months passed, things kept changing. She hugged her parents, and her parents cried and said they’d miss her. She stripped the sheets off her bed and told me I was a good old dog. She left in her car like she sometimes did, and I haven’t seen her since.

            Her parents leave the bedroom door open for me, and they tell each other how sad it is to watch me miss her. How could I not? I love her. I thought she loved me, too.

I still sleep on her bed. My breathing is rough, and my hips are getting weaker, but I could still watch over her at night. Maybe if she knew that, she’d come home. Until then, I’ll keep waiting.