The Floor Where We Stayed

The couch is so lovely in the morning sun. It hits the cushions in that warm, perfect way that makes my fur feel like it’s glowing. The house is quiet, unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that makes my ears perk even though nothing is wrong. Everyone is gone. Everyone is out. And when she’s home, I’m never allowed on the couch. Never. She always says I’m too big, that I take up too much space in this small house. I don’t think I’m that big, but everyone says I am. I’m Brutus, a rottweiler, 110 pounds of muscle and love and curiosity. I know I’m heavy because the floor shakes when I jump off the bed. But right now, the couch holds me just fine.

The dishes are stacked up in the sink again. She does that sometimes when she’s rushing. I don’t mind. It makes it easier to lick the ketchup off the plates when she forgets to rinse them. I know I’m not supposed to, but I also know she won’t notice. She’s always rushing. Always tired. Always thinking about something else. But she brings me everywhere, and because of that, I know a lot about the world. I know the sound of her car engine. I know the smell of her sadness. I know the difference between her angry footsteps and her tired ones. I know when she’s pretending to be okay. Dogs know these things.

She’s at work now. I can feel the house settling without her. My eyes start to close, heavy and slow, and I let myself sink into the couch cushions. I’m drifting, drifting, drifting—

Then the door handle jingles.

My eyes snap open. My ears shoot up. I hear her key. She’s home. She’s home early. I scramble off the couch, trying to act like I wasn’t there at all. I stretch, shake my fur, pretend I’ve been on the floor the whole time. My tail is wagging so hard it hits the wall. I’m excited. I’m ready to greet her.

But when she walks in, she’s covered in tears.

She’s talking loudly on the phone, her voice sharp and broken. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t say my name. She just says, “Move.” Not mean, not angry, but empty. A greeting I rarely ever get. A greeting that only comes when something is very, very wrong.

This kind of greeting always brings the same things: tears, crying, the energy in the room crashing like a wave. I want to comfort her, but I also want to hide. I don’t know what I did. I don’t know why she throws herself onto the floor like that. She’s screaming now, but the phone is quietly sitting on the counter, no longer in her hand.

“THAT WAS MY ONLY HOPE!” she yells at the ceiling fan.

I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what hope is. I only know her voice is hurting. I only know her body is shaking. I only know I want it to stop.

I back into the bathroom and hide behind the door. I want to run away, but she’s still screaming, still crying, still talking to herself. My heart is racing. My paws feel too big. My breath is fast and loud. I peek my head out of the bathroom, just enough so she can see me if she looks. But she doesn’t. She keeps crying.

I’m panting now. I’m concerned. My tail won’t stop wagging even though I’m scared. I feel the need to protect her. But from what? There’s no stranger. No danger. Just her. Just her pain.

I decide to be brave.

I leave the bathroom slowly, step by step, my nails clicking on the floor. I approach her carefully. She’s curled on the carpet, shaking. When she finally notices me, she reaches out with a trembling hand.

“Come here, boy. I’m okay.”

She’s not okay. I know she’s not. But I go to her anyway. She pets me with slow, shaky strokes, her sobs softening. Her energy shifts, not calm, but less explosive. I lay down beside her, ready for more pets, but she stands up suddenly. I follow her. I always follow her.

She goes into the bathroom. I follow. She sits on the toilet, but she’s not using it. She’s staring. Staring at the water. Staring at the red swirling in it. The smell hits me—her bleed. But something is wrong. Something is different. She kicks the toilet and screams again. I flinch so hard my paws slip on the tile.

She drops to the floor again, crying harder than before.

Please go back to normal, I think. Please stop hurting. Please let me help.

She stays on the bathroom floor for a long time. The unflushed bleed is strong, overpowering, but I stay still. I stay close. She isn’t petting me anymore. She’s staring into nothing, whispering “Why… why… why…”

Eventually she gets up and walks to the kitchen. The morning sun is still warming that perfect spot on the couch, and I want to curl up there again, but I can’t leave her. Not now. Not when she’s like this.

She picks up her phone and presses play on a message.

“This is Dr. Fern from OBGYN. I am sorry to report there is no more baby in your womb.”

She plays it again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, she collapses like she’s hearing it for the first time. She throws herself onto the floor, forgetting I’m there, startling me every time. My body jumps. My heart races. I feel like I’m vibrating.

She starts breathing in a way that scares me—fast, sharp, too loud. I lick her face. I don’t know what else to do. I lick her again. She finally looks at me. Really looks at me. Her eyes soften just a little.

She pets me. Slow. Heavy. Grateful.

We stay on the floor together for a long time. Her breathing slows. Her crying softens. My tail thumps quietly. I press my head into her chest. She holds onto my fur like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

I don’t know what a womb is. I don’t know what a baby is. I don’t know what hope she lost.

But I know she needs me.

And I’m not moving.

Not today.

Not ever.