What the Dog Knew

The cable guy found me in the kitchen, crying over a wilted bag of spinach. It was 7 AM on a Tuesday, three weeks after Sarah left, and I hadn't managed more than coffee and whatever sad produce lingered in the crisper drawer.

"Got a call about the internet?" he said, clipboard in hand, looking everywhere but at me.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. "Yeah. Through there."

Barnaby, Sarah's golden retriever—my dog now, technically, though she'd left him behind like an unwanted piece of furniture—thumped his tail against the linoleum. He'd been doing that more lately. Choosing sides.

The cable guy worked silently while I stood in the doorway, watching. The apartment felt cavernous without Sarah's things. Her books, her plants, her organized chaos. All that remained was Barnaby and this spinach that refused to stay fresh, much like whatever we'd had together.

"You got a signal now," the guy said, packing up his tools. He paused at the door. "My wife left me last year."

I blinked.

He shrugged. "The dog knows. Just so you know."

After he left, I stood in the kitchen again. The spinach sat on the counter, mocking me. I thought about throwing it out, about ordering takeout, about calling Sarah just to hear her voice say she wasn't coming back.

Instead, I cooked it.

Garlic, olive oil, heat. The kitchen filled with a smell that wasn't sadness. Barnaby appeared at my feet, hopeful. I dropped a piece of cooked spinach onto the floor. He ate it happily, because dogs don't care about symbolism.

We ate breakfast together, me standing at the counter, Barnaby on the floor. The cable TV worked now, though I didn't turn it on. Some signals you don't need to receive anymore.

"You're a good dog," I said, scratching behind his ears.

He thumped his tail against the linoleum, choosing me again, and for the first time in weeks, I believed I might actually deserve it.