What the Dog Knows

The apartment was too quiet without him. Elena stood in the kitchen, watching Buster—their golden retriever—press his nose against the glass cabinet where the goldfish used to live. Richard had taken the tank when he moved out, claiming it was his grandmother's antique. He'd left Elena with the dog and a mortgage on a place that suddenly felt cavernous.

"He's not coming back, Buster," she whispered, but the dog just thumped his tail once, hope stubborn as a heartbeat.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Richard's name. Again. He wanted to know if she'd come to his padel match on Saturday—something about their mixed doubles partner needing a substitute, and wouldn't it be nice to be normal, just for a few hours? Elena had stared at the text until the letters blurred. Normal. The man who'd walked out on their seven-year marriage two weeks after her mother's funeral wanted normal.

She remembered the night she'd found out about the affair. Richard had come home smelling of hotel soap and someone else's perfume, claiming he'd been at extra padel practice. Buster had growled at him—a first—and Richard had laughed it off, ruffling the dog's fur with careless hands.

Now, Buster whined softly, pacing to the front door and back. Elena realized with a dull ache that the dog understood more than she did. Richard had been gone for weeks, but Buster still waited for the sound of his key in the lock.

Her eyes filled. The tears came hot and fast, and she let them fall. Some nights she felt like she was drowning in it all—the empty rooms, the phone calls she couldn't bring herself to answer, the way she still set the table for two out of habit. Like a goldfish swimming in the same tight circle, forgetting it had been anywhere else, forgetting there was anything beyond the glass.

Buster pressed his wet nose against her palm, and Elena dropped to her knees, burying her face in his soft fur. The dog leaned into her, solid and warm and unfailingly present.

"Good boy," she murmured. "You stay."

The phone buzzed again with another text. Elena didn't look. For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like drowning. She just felt angry, clean and sharp and ready.

She stood up, wiped her face, and picked up her own padel racket from where it leaned against the wall. If Richard wanted to see her on the court, fine. She'd show him exactly who walked away.