“Let’s go home,” she says after our morning walk.
Those words used to send thrills through my heart. I loved my old neighbourhood with its variety of odours. Where are the intoxicating smells of roasted chicken coming from the delivery store? Where is the good owner of the deli who often slipped me a piece of pepperoni? And the trees trunks with the smell of my buddies?
There is none of this now. I feel lost.
I am inside an elevator and up we go with my stomach doing a tilt- a-whirl. I try to contain my fear. I am not used to being in such a small closed space. Then the doors open and I am able to breathe again and let out a loud bark which my mistress scolds me for. I follow her down a corridor and into my new home.
I miss my old home with its passage-way long enough for me to chase after my stuffed dinosaur. Here, though it’s too small. I head straight for my bed and sulk for the remainder of the day and evening, which in dog time is probably weeks, maybe months. I hate my new home. I hate that she didn’t even consult me about moving.