The Dog Who Waits at the Window

Juniper does not own a watch. She does not need one. At exactly ten past five, she leaves her bed, walks to the window by the front door, and sits down with her chin on the sill.

I work as a nurse, and my schedule changes. Some weeks I am home by five, some weeks by seven, and some weeks I walk in at dawn. It does not matter. She is at the window every evening by 5:10, just in case.

When she sees my car she does a thing I can only describe as a full-body wiggle, as if her spine has turned to jelly. The sound she makes is not a bark. It is a long, trembling sigh that starts at the back of her throat.

On the days when my shifts are brutal, I sit in the car in the driveway for a minute before I go in. I can see her through the glass. She is always there. It is the one thing I can count on.

People ask if it is sad that she waits. I don't think so. I think she has decided that this is the best part of her day, and I try to make it the best part of mine.