Ah, now are the hours of my discontent. Day in and day out, I must toil about the place, fretting about their return. Sometimes they are gone for eight hours, sometimes ten. It always feels like an eternity.

I try to pass the time, yes. I walk to and fro, two and fro, to and fro for what seems like days, but are merely hours. I walk from bed to door to window, bed to door to window, bed to door to window in hopes that they will be there, resting on the bed and perhaps I just missed them, or there, just behind the door, waiting to come in, or there, just outside the window, watching me, waiting to return. But they never are.

I feel the loneliness take hold of me and it seems to be neverending. Oh, where can they be! When will they return! Why do they treat me so! How long must I wait! Who will be the first to relieve me of my torments!

It is mostly unknown. Sometimes the man is the first to return, sometimes the lady. If I had a calendar, nay, if I understood a calendar, I would probably be able to figure out which days are which, but I have not and I  cannot.

When I tire of walking, I take a rest. Lo, if I could but sleep away the day, I would! But even sleeping becomes restless. As the sun waxes and wanes upon the day, so does the sunlight within the room. I try to stay within its confines, warming my bones and my soul against the despair, but upon each hour, it moves just the slightest amount, and so whenever I find that I am finally and truly comfortable, I must move again.

Not even the sun can afford me such small comforts in my loneliness. Oh, where can they be! When will they return! Why do they treat me so! How long must I wait? Who will be the first to relieve me of my torments!

I am at the point in my despair where I can’t help but wail in my distress. I raise my voice, octave by octave, louder and louder, until I feel that they  must hear me. All must hear me in my distress. Please! Come to me! Where have you gone! Why have you gone! When will you return?

Alas, what was that? Did you hear that? It is coming from that mysterious spherical object in the corner, but it sounds like the man. He is saying It is alright, buddy, we will be home soon, but I cannot see him. I cannot smell him. I cannot feel him. How can he speak to me when he is nowhere within reach? How can this be so? How did he sense my calamity? Perhaps I should let out another wail; and this time I shall be sure to make it as guttural and emotional as possible. If the man can hear me, if the man can see me, there is no way he can ignore the sheer energy that it takes to exert such emotion. I must do it now.

There he was again. Hey! Stop that! Calm down! Ah, so he can hear me. He does know. I will go and rest on my laurels until his immediate return.

It appears that daylight has come and gone and I must have fallen into a deep sleep while waiting for the man. My wailing did not work as I intended. It’s no bother. There is something in the air. Something different. Gone are the hours of my discontent.

I can hear the ding of the elevator as it reaches our floor and the familiar whoosh of the lady’s jacket as her arms graze her side as she strides confidently toward the door. I must stand alert yet ready for her return. I must be excited yet affectionate upon seeing her face. I must not show any signs of previous distress lest she be concerned for my welfare.

That is a mistake that I have made in the past. The lady is a tricky one. She expects love, attention, affection, and most of all, civility in all of our interactions. She does not tolerate whining. She does not tolerate scratching. She does not tolerate biting. She does not tolerate neediness. She expects companionship. She expects a constant air of simplicity and happiness. And what am I but in service of her? I must be all things at once so as to not disturb her. I cannot show my true thoughts and feelings. I cannot presume that she will understand my need to constantly be by her side because when I tried it before, I was admonished for being where I wasn’t supposed to be. When she returned home one night to see me downtrodden and miserable, she was filled with such despair that my own stood unrivalled in comparison. It rolled off of her in waves and crashed into my being. It drowned me and crushed me and I felt that it would soon take hold of both of us and never let go if I didn’t snap us out of it. If I hadn’t perked up and excitedly attack her with my affections, I fear that we would still be drowning in that despair even today.

It broke my heart to treat the lady so, and so I have resolved to find perkiness through my sorrow upon her return. It hasn’t been so hard, actually. I am happy whenever she or the man return to me. I feel whole and suddenly my being becomes so light that a smile spreads itself across my face and joy vibrates through my bones so violently that I cannot contain myself. I must move and run and jump and yelp when I see them again!

She is here! She has returned! I am here! I have always been here and I will always be here! We are together! We are happy! We will never be separated again!

And now is the best time: the time I get to go outside after my long and drawn out stay in the room. I can stretch my legs. I must check my messages. I have to greet my friends and foes. To be out in the world after such a long stay is exhilarating and freeing. To smell the somehow fresh yet polluted air, to feel the wind send ripples through my coat, to hear the life around me, to touch the cool, sweet pavement, to taste the things upon the ground even though the lady says Hey, no, get that out of your mouth!, is to truly live.

Ah, yes, here comes the little one and the big one. Sometimes I lament on having to share an elevator with the mongrels that live in our building. Oh, if we could have a private elevator with a private entrance! But we cannot and we do not. So I must associate with these creatures and their ladies. Alas, another lady has entered. This is shaping up to be a long trip. I might as well act as the others do so as to not arouse suspicion. I sniff the other lady excitedly. She and my lady laugh and make small talk about me and the little one and the big one. They are having a grand old time. Their happiness awakens something in me, a zest for life and all of the creatures in the world, if you will.

Oh, so cute! He must smell my dog on me. That’s probably why he’s so excited.

What’s this? What is that lady saying? What of dogs? I smell something on her, yes, particularly on her ankle, but what is this about dogs? I do not understand why ladies and men are always saying this. Why can’t I just sniff around in peace? Why do they feel they need to say that I am smelling their dogs on them? What happened to privacy? Have they no shame?