Dogday

The air smells faintly of rain and fur—mine, mostly, damp and restless. I’ve been pacing along the edge of the old yard, the one that never seems to remember warmth without you in it. My claws scuff the earth, carving small trails of frustration while twilight crawls up my back.

It’s strange, the silence after you’ve gone—like someone pressed pause on the world and forgot to start it again. I keep thinking I hear the lull of your sigh tucked inside the wind, but it’s always just the rustling leaves.

If you were here, I’d pretend I wasn’t waiting. I’d tilt my head, wag my tail once, maybe twice. Playful. Controlled. But we both know better—don’t we?

So go on. Step closer, Catnap. The scent of quiet dreams still clings to you, and I… I’ve always been terrible at resisting the dark.