“Titus Doesn’t Know I’m Leaving”



I haven’t even left yet, and I already miss him.

Titus is sprawled on the chair  near my backpack, suspicious. He’s no fool—he’s seen this routine before. The laundry pile disappears, the suitcase reappears, and his world tips slightly sideways. The tail doesn’t wag quite as freely. He shadows me like he’s trying to solve a mystery before it’s too late.

The truth is, I can call Jamie. I can text the kids. I can hop on FaceTime and see their faces and reassure myself that all is well. But Titus? He doesn’t get video calls. He doesn’t know that I’m just gone temporarily. He only knows I’m gone. Vanished. No warning, no explanation.

That’s what hits me the hardest.

This dog—rescued from a Walmart trunk, turned into my shadow, my buddy, my once-small fluffball turned suspiciously food-motivated companion—won’t understand why I’m not there to let him sniff every random patch of grass like it contains the secrets of the universe. Who’s going to give him those unnecessarily long, meandering walks where the actual distance covered is a fraction of the time spent standing still, sniffing some invisible dog graffiti?

Who’s going to lose at tug-of-war on purpose? Who’s going to sneak him scraps under the table when they think no one’s watching? (Okay, everyone watches, and yes, I get yelled at—but he’s got those eyes.)

Jamie tries to help. She’s sent me photos before—Titus curled up by the door, like a little shepherd-shaped doorman waiting for his guy to come back. Or him staring dramatically out the window like he’s in a music video for heartbreak. It helps and hurts at the same time. Because he really waits. He really misses me.


Who’s going to let him chase frogs at midnight like it’s some noble mission? Who’s going to indulge that dramatic, whiny shepherd routine he does when he wants attention—not in a bad way, just like he’s narrating his inner turmoil to the universe?

I hate that he won’t understand this is temporary.

If I could explain it to him, I would. I’d tell him I’ll be back soon. I’d promise there will be more walks, more tug, more frog patrols. I’d tell him he’s a good boy, and that I miss him already.

But all I can do is pack a little slower, sneak in an extra head scratch, and hope he knows—deep down—that even when I’m away, I never really leave him behind.



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