It’s a steady thump, a heartbeat. Maybe muffled by the living room carpet, Dane’s body glued to his latest computer game but carefully not moving his chair so he doesn’t run over the dog. Maybe louder on the kitchen’s wooden floor as I race around making dinner and accidentally on purpose dropping bacon scraps. A damp nose pushed into your hand, a warm, heavy weight on your feet in winter.
Or it was. Dane looks up, abandoning his screen for long enough to ask, “When will he be back?” and wait for an answer.
“Tuesday,” I say, missing Dogger too.