He Told Me to Wait. So I Did

I don’t remember what day it was. Just that the sun was high and the pavement was hot under my paws. He knelt beside me, scratched behind my ears the way he always did, and pointed to the big red mailbox.

“Wait here, boy. I’ll be back soon.”

And so, I did.

I watched him walk down the street. His boots thudded on the pavement. He didn’t look back. He always looked back. That time, he didn’t.

At first, I thought it was a game. Maybe he was testing me like he used to when we played hide and seek in the yard. I was good at waiting. Always have been.

I lay down by the mailbox and waited for the sound of those boots returning.

The sun set. The sky turned orange, then purple. The stars came out.

Still, I waited.

People passed. Most didn’t notice me. Some did.

A woman in a flowered dress crouched near me the next morning and tried to pet me. I growled low, just enough to make her step back. She meant well, but she didn’t smell like him.

He smelled like motor oil, mint gum, and something warm I can't describe.

Days passed. Then weeks.

I stopped counting.

Sometimes it rained. I curled under the steps. Sometimes it snowed. I dug into a pile of old blankets left out for garbage and wrapped myself like I remembered curling next to him on the couch.

Other dogs barked at me. Some tried to pick a fight. I didn’t fight back. I just waited.

One day, a boy left a peanut butter sandwich beside me. I didn’t eat it at first — what if he came back while I was distracted?

But hunger is louder than loyalty sometimes. I ate half and saved the rest.

Maybe for him.

There were sirens one night. Loud ones. A fire truck screamed past, followed by a flashing ambulance. I watched the lights disappear into the dark. Somewhere inside me, I hoped maybe they were for him — not because I wanted him hurt, but because maybe someone would finally find him and bring him back to me.

But no one came.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Then one morning, a girl with bright eyes and quiet steps stopped on the sidewalk. She didn’t speak right away. She just sat near me — not too close. Smart girl.

She came back the next day. Sat a little closer. Didn’t try to touch me. Just sat and read out loud from a book. Her voice was soft. Familiar. Like wind through the leaves.

The third day, she brought a bowl of water and chicken. Real chicken.

“Hey, buddy,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

I licked the water. Ate the chicken. Looked down the road, just in case.

She followed my gaze. “Someone didn’t come back, huh?”

Days with her felt different. She never pushed. Never forced. Just came and waited with me. Some days she stayed for hours. She told me about her brother, who went off to war and never came back. About her mom who cried more than she smiled.

One day, she brought a leash.

“I won’t make you,” she said. “But if you ever decide you’re done waiting… I’ll be here.”

She left it on the ground and walked away.

I stared at the leash for a long time.

It smelled like her. And chicken. And something else.

Not like him.

But not bad.

That night, I dreamed of him. But he didn’t say anything. He just looked at me — not sad, not happy. Just… still. The way people look when they want you to understand something without words.

I woke up with my head on the leash.

The girl cried when she saw me standing there the next morning, leash in my mouth.

“Oh, buddy,” she whispered. “You’re ready.”

I don’t know what ready means. But I know I walked beside her, and it felt… okay. Not perfect. Not the same. But warm.

She gave me a new name. “Chance.”

She said it was because I deserved one.

Now I sleep in a bed. Sometimes on the couch when she forgets to say no. There’s food in a bowl that never empties, and hands that pet me gently. I still look at the door sometimes. Still flinch at the sound of boots outside. But I don’t wait like I used to.

I don’t think he’s coming back.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because someone else came instead.

Someone who sat in silence, brought food, and waited — just like I did.

And sometimes, when you’ve given all your hope to someone who left…

…it’s okay to give your heart to someone who stayed.