The Wait for the Dog.

Five months and five days after we left her, she comes home.

For five long months, I've waited to see my dog.  She stayed behind in California while we moved on to find a good home, for ourselves, and really, for her.  Every house we considered was reviewed for benefits to the dog.  Every neighborhood, for its proximity to a dog run.

We settled in on the beach, not just for the views and and the incessant drone of the waves, but for the beckoning sandbox beyond our deck.  This would be her playground.

Today, the little dog is released from her 30-day confinement in quarantine.  We've visited with her often, at least twice a week but usually three, during that time.  In the first days, she was over-excited and confused to see us.  As time passed, she became hopeful that every visit was our last and that she would finally don her collar to depart.  She would sit patiently in front of the door during our visits, blocking our exit lest we forget what we came for.  Unfortunately, we had to explain to her uncomprehending, eternally devoted eyes, her sentence wasn't complete.  In the last week, I've fancied her new non-chalance as a resignation to her situation.  We arrive, she jumps and licks and tells us through wiggles and groans that she's okay but not totally satisfied with her digs.  She looks at the door and we say, "not yet."  And then she lets it go.  She heads onto her private, concrete patio to show us a toy, drink water, mutter at a bird hopping too close to the chainlink fence separating her from the best possible, but still inaccessible, world for her.  When we leave, she gets in bed and casts her dark eyes on us.  I read her disappointed compassion for us in them and I assure her that we've tried to be unselfish in this adventure, that she'll be happy at the beach, that we'll be together for the rest of her life, that she'll never have to sleep alone in a lonely, sparsely furnished kennel suite looking out on the hills and fields she'd love to romp.

Ah, but I know what she might think.  "Haven't I done this before?"

And that's when I commit, come what may, to staying on these islands.  Because, come what may, our dog shouldn't have to travel anymore.

Two more hours until they set her free.