Where the Quiet Lives

Look at him.

Really look.

That big soft snout pointing just past the sunlight.

Head tipped down, one eye turned sideways, catching something only he can see.

He’s not asleep.

He’s not waiting for dinner.

He’s somewhere else, holding a memory the way you’d hold a warm stone on a cold day.

When we brought Roo home, he climbed into my truck like he’d done it a hundred times.

But I could see it in his eyes. He was looking for something that wasn’t there.

Maybe he thought, Where’s my old Rav4? The seat I rode in, the smell I know?

Dogs remember what we think they’ll forget.

The hum of an engine. The door that closed. The person who said goodbye without saying the word.

Sometimes I’d find him just like this.

Sitting quiet, head low, eyes drifting sideways toward the door.

You could almost hear what he was asking.

Is she coming back? Did she forget where she left me? Am I staying here or am I just passing through?

Dogs don’t have words for that kind of wondering.

They carry it in the way they watch the hall, the way they rest but never quite settle.

Maybe that’s why I feel so close to him in that stare.

Because I do it too.

A few years before Roo, I lost my Ma.

When you lose a parent, you learn what staring off really means.

You find yourself drifting back to the smell of Pine-Sol and pancakes on a Saturday morning, Lionel Richie spinning on the record player, your Ma smiling at you from the stove.

She’d wear that same old red bandana, humming as she wiped down the counters, telling you breakfast was ready.

You see it so clearly you could step right back into it.

But you can’t.

So you stare off, missing her, wondering if she knew how much you loved her.

You think about how you could have been a better son.

All the things.

You wonder about all the things.

But what you really want is one more chance to say, I love you.

Is that where Roo’s mind was too?

Sitting in the hush, hoping the person he lost might come through the door just once, so he could press his head into their hand and say, I’m still yours.

I wonder if he ever knew I was sitting there too, holding my own questions.

There I was.

Just the foster dad, at least on paper.

But my heart had already made up its mind.

I wanted him to fall in love with this place, with me, with the hush that said, You’re safe here.

I wanted him to look at me with that sideways glance and decide, This is my home now.

He’d lift those eyes, soft and searching, and I’d hear what neither of us could say out loud.

How long do I get this? How long do I get you?

And in my chest, I’d answer him every time.

As long as you want, buddy. As long as you’ll stay.

If you stand with Roo long enough, you start to feel it in your own chest.

We’re not so different from him.

We’ve all stared off like that.

Eyes half on what we have, half on what we lost.

We wonder if the good thing will stay.

If the people we love will come back.

If we’ll ever feel that seat under us again, the one that smelled like home.

Roo reminded me you don’t have to fix that wondering.

You don’t have to chase it away.

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do, for a dog, for a person, for yourself, is to sit close.

Stay in the hush with them.

Say without words, I’m here. Stay as long as you need.

No rush.

No fear.

No fixing.

Just here.

More to come.