The man walked up the steps to the kitchen door, the small, white, West Highland Terrier heeling at his side. He opened the door, wiped his feet on the mat and walked in the kitchen. He shut the door behind them.
"Hello, Alberta. Minute's had her walk." The man bent and unfastened the leash as the dog sat obediently, watching the man closely. Maybe a pat? Maybe one of the rare treats? The man straightened up and hung the leash on a hook by the door. "Dinner ready?" The dog walked over to her water bowl and lapped several times.
"Almost," said Alberta. "Wash up, Ralph, and I'll put dinner on the table."
A few minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table, eating meat loaf and mashed potatoes, asparagus and rolls. The dog laid quietly in the hall entrance to the kitchen, as she had been taught, watching carefully. Perhaps today would be the day they'd call her over, give her a morsel of their food, let her sit under the table by their feet, watching for dropped bits a small dog could gobble, a dog's prerogative.
She listened as they talked. Their voices were calm, no excitement. Blah, blah, blah, Ralph. Blah, blah, Alberta. Another day like so many days before, and the days to follow were sure to be the same. She shifted around, for they were almost done; no chance of random table food.
The man gathered the dishes and took the to the sink as the woman ran the water and added the soap. A bath for the dishes. It was not her bath day. The woman began washing the dishes as the man picked up her food bowl and set it on the counter.
Minute watched Ralph's every move as he put one small spoonful of the soft, moist, tender delicious meat from the can and heard the clatter of dry pieces pouring in the bow. He set the bowl on the floor mat by her water bowl and the dog walked over to her dinner. She sniffed carefully, although there would be no bits of meatloaf, a bit of tender potato, or even a drizzle of gravy. The aromas of their meal filled kitchen but that was all she got of it. She nosed out the delightful moist meat first, then ate the dry food.
She licked her lips and waited. Soon they would go in the other room, where the man and woman would watch the talking box and she would doze in her bed till it was time for her nightly walk. The daily routine when the loved one was not home.
The man picked up a wet dish and began drying it. More sounds of their voices, sounds she didn't understand, but then her ears pricked up when he said, "Tommy blah-blah-blah-blah." She looked and listened and sniffed but Tommy was not there, not walking in the door, not in the house. Tommy, who sneaked her bits of the table food, gave her treats every day, let her sit on his lap. He had to sit on the floor for that, as the old woman would scowl and her voice would get sharp and harsh. "Tommy, blah-blah-MINUTE-blah."
But even Tommy couldn't allow her up the stairs to the second floor, the mysterious place where they all went after dark, leaving her alone, without her pack, to watch the house and sleep alone in her bed. One day she'd go upstairs with them. She'd check out the rooms up there and sleep with Tommy. One day.
Soon the man and woman were on the sofa, another forbidden spot, as were the chairs with their soft cushions and backsides. So sweet to curl up in and doze. From a chair she could see out the windows. She had learned very early that chairs with their cushions were forbidden. The talking box was on, the woman knitting and the man reading a book as the box talked on and on. She curled up in her bed in the corner, dozing.
"Minute, let's go," the man said. She stretched, stepped out of the bed, and followed the man to the kitchen, standing patiently as he fastened the leash and following him out the door. This walk in the dark would be brief, but she could make it longer by sniffing around, checking out sounds, and taking her time. This was the one time the man allowed her a little leeway. She sniffed the trees and bushes, and finally selected one. The man collected the droppings in a bag, as usual, and they returned to the house.
