The breakfast routine runs exactly as it should. I escort Dad to the kitchen, wait as he cleans the water bowl, follow to the kibble bin. Gus appears at the first scoop — never before. We eat. I give my small nod of thanks.

But something is off in the morning light.

The house holds a different weight when only half the architecture is present. Dad moves through the rooms with a particular care, like he’s carrying something fragile. The coffee takes longer. He stands at the counter and stares at nothing I can identify.

Gus has noticed too, though he handles it with his usual philosophy of patient acceptance. He stations himself in the family room where he can monitor both the front door and the kitchen. I find myself checking corners that shouldn’t need checking.

The phone rings at times that feel wrong. Dad’s voice changes when he answers — brighter, more purposeful. These conversations happen in rooms I’m not invited to witness, though I position myself nearby anyway. The distance in his voice suggests the conversation is traveling very far.

Tuesday has a heaviness that Monday did not carry. The light through the south-facing glass door falls exactly where it should, but I cannot settle into it properly. The warmth is there but the comfort is not.

Four more sleeps until the front door opens the right way again.

I have been calculating. Dad takes us to Hollinshead more often this week. Yesterday we walked Drake Park twice. The cookie jar on the kitchen counter empties faster than usual — tax time happens with suspicious frequency. These are compensations, though I’m not complaining.

Gus has claimed the entire sofa. Normally I would pour myself into whatever gap exists beside him, but today I choose the floor nearby. Close enough to feel his presence, far enough to maintain my vigil. The front door requires monitoring.

The house settles differently in the evenings. Sounds I never notice become obvious. The refrigerator hums louder. The pine trees outside shift in ways that create new shadows. Dad stays up later.

I understand waiting. It’s a fundamental basset skill. But this particular waiting has weight that regular waiting does not carry. This is waiting for the completion of something that was temporarily broken.

The frozen bone will still arrive Friday. The morning cookie will still happen. The sun patch will still appear at the proper time. But all of these certainties feel suspended, like they’re holding their breath.

Four sleeps. I have been counting.

~P.W.