The bowls are empty. Both purple and blue, sitting side by side on the kitchen floor, licked clean in the way only basset tongues can manage. Gus has wandered off to claim the family room sofa. I remain.

There is a particular quality to Saturday evening light — warmer somehow than the weekday version, less hurried. It comes through the south-facing door at an angle that says the day is winding down but not quite finished. The temperature reached 18°C today, which feels like a gift in March, though the forecast promises snow by Tuesday. Spring in Bend operates on its own schedule.

Dad moves through the kitchen, putting things away. The sound of the dishwasher door opening. The gentle clink of plates finding their places. He has settled at the desk in the studio — I can hear the familiar creak of his chair. This is the hour when the house reorganizes itself around satisfaction.

I position myself strategically near the counter. Not begging — that would be undignified. Simply present. Available for consultation should any interesting scraps require proper disposal. The 14°C air drifts through the doggy door, carrying the scent of warming earth and the faint promise of ponderosa pollen that will soon make everyone’s eyes water.

Gus has begun his evening routine — a systematic survey of the sofa cushions, checking for overlooked crumbs or forgotten treats. His approach lacks subtlety but achieves results. Meanwhile, I practice the art of hopeful waiting. It is a skill refined over years of post-dinner kitchen surveillance.

The daylight continues its slow fade. Soon the porch will catch the last of it, and we will migrate there for the evening watch — people walking by, the occasional greeting, the comfortable weight of another day settling into memory. But for now, this in-between time holds its own pleasures.

Dad glances down. His hand moves toward the cookie jar.

Some vigils are rewarded.

~P.W.