My dog has ruled over my morning routine since the day I brought him home from the shelter. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never truly grasped the relationship between a dog and its owner until I had one of my own.
The illuminating sound of my alarm wakes me up at six a.m., and I lie in bed for half an hour thinking back to some stupid thing I said weeks prior, or pondering life’s biggest questions to calm my nerves for the day.

“Morning, Tuck,” I say, shifting slightly to lean on my right arm.

The mattress holds the shape of his large body from his night’s rest; only he isn’t there right now. I don't worry though; he’s become rather independent lately now that he’s not a puppy anymore. He’s probably just wandering around the kitchen or something.

My morning thoughts were interrupted by a text from my mother. I scoffed loudly; this was the third message from her today. Of course my mother has reason to worry and check in on me. I had a break-in a few weeks ago, when the May showers were at their strongest. But I’m not scared anymore. I’ve gone back to work again full time, and spend whatever free time I have playing in the park or watching Shrek with Tucker beside me. I lock my screen and put away my phone for now.

Freshly washed and draped in my favorite frayed robe, I head into the kitchen to fix myself a cup of coffee and prepare lunch for the day ahead. But before doing any of that, I tend to Tucker first.

With caution and precision, I fill Tucker’s bowl with food and water. He hasn’t been eating recently, so I made a switch to Blue Buffalo dog food. I haven’t seen much of a difference in his eating habits yet.

“Where are you, Tuck,” I ask to a seemingly empty apartment. “Mom’s gonna go to work in a minute, I’ll let you sleep.”

I hear a low yelp from the sofa in the living room, and there he is. Sprawled out on the long couch, his almond eyes glaze over in a state of dreaming, his paws are curled slightly into the fetal position. His soft, golden fur rises and falls ever so slightly with each tender breath he takes.

“Make sure the dog walker puts your collar back on.”

Listen to me, talking to a dog. I must be going crazy.

In the chill of early November, I sit huddled in my cubicle at work, mindlessly checking the emails that clutter my screen.

“White chocolate latte for you,” Leslie said with a smile far too big for this dull morning.

I know that a lot of people at work are freaked out by me. Or are too frightened at my apparent fragility to approach me. But Leslie is a friend. She brings me coffees in the mornings and comes with me to the dog park some afternoons.

Leslie peers over my shoulder and sees me looking through old photos of Tucker. I was looking at my favorite one: Tucker’s long legs stand proudly on the highest rock of the highest hill in Central Park. His fur glistens through the lens, and his snout is pointed upwards towards the sky, a slight breeze visibly swaying through his fur.

I miss moments like these, but I’m not sure why.

“Put the phone away Emmy, stop looking at those photos,” Leslie said. “I just.. I don’t know why you’re torturing yourself like this.”

“We’re probably going to the park again today, if you want to join,” I said.

“Maybe next time,” Leslie replies. She grabs her coffee off the edge of my desk and leaves with a slightly quicker step then what she came with.

That afternoon I walked and walked with Tucker’s leash in hand, and soon found myself in the dog park I so often frequented, right on the far north corner of Central Park.

“Go get it, boy,” I say to Tucker, tossing a broken tennis ball to the far side of the park. His hind legs start moving faster as he darts through the crowds of people and their dogs, and past the park’s fountains like a horse on a racetrack.

I grasp his dirtied leash tightly a closed fist; I can’t let it go.

I need to get out of my fucking head.

A deep bark from a loud Rottweiler takes me out of my thoughts. Rotating in either direction, I look around trying to find Tucker, but can’t. My hands feel clammy and my breathing starts to tense and slow.

“TUCKER,” I shout to a park filled with people.

They are all staring. I’m crazy. I just saw Tucker. Where did he go?

“TUCKER WHERE ARE YOU?”

A couple standing by the tree stares intently at me, wondering what I’m going to do next. Their fattened pug sits helplessly by, too overweight to play with the other animals.

“Excuse me, but who are you trying to find?” A woman had approached me in my state of panic.

“My dog, Tucker. Please.. Please help me. He was just here I just saw him playing over there,” I said, pointing to the spot in the park that I threw his tennis ball. I show her my camera roll full of pictures of Tucker, so she knows who to look for.

The woman searches the park with me for twenty minutes, but no luck.

“I don't mean to pry, but I don’t remember you coming in with the any dog,” the woman said.

“Are you sure you didn’t come in alone?”

How dare she. How dare she ask that. Tears form in my eyes and begin to cloud my vision and thinking. Where is Tucker?

Just then, his warm body rubs against my leg, and my panic disappears. I reach down to rub the insides of his snout right between his almond eyes. The petting seems empty, though, and I feel uneasy for some reason.

“Thank you for your help, I’m heading out now,” I say to the woman. I will never forget the look she gave me.

“Come on, Tuck,” I said, connecting his leash to the hook of his collar.

Three long and lonely months pass by. Something has changed with Tucker lately. His almond eyes are darkening and his behavior is growing distant. He never sleeps curled up next to me anymore; his small body no longer leaves an impression in the seams of mattress. His barks are growing louder and angrier, hostility I’ve never heard from him before.

I don’t wake up to my alarm; instead I am awakened by my mother’s shouts in my apartment.

“Oh Emmy,” she said. “You don’t look good. Have you been taking care of yourself? And why is that damn dog bowl filled with food? Who do you think will eat that?”

“Why the hell are you here? I have things to do.”

“You haven’t been going to work. I spoke to Leslie, and I’m worried about you. What are you even doing with your time?”

She is so good at making me feel bad. Where’s Tucker, I need him here with me. He will comfort me.  

“I drove to Cape Cod the other weekend actually,” I said. “I wanted to run on the beach with Tucker, we had a great time.”

My mother’s eyes become glassy with a certain sadness that concerns me. She turned her head slightly, looking out my bay window and into the street. The tears that had begun to form in her eyes shimmered from the sunlight in a way that was far too beautiful for this moment.

“I have held onto this information for far too long. I thought I was helping you, but clearly you’re not well,” my mother says, tensing up. “Emmy, you and I both know Tucker is no longer alive. I don't know how much longer you are going to keep up with this act. It’s been almost six months.”

The break-in. What happened during the break-in? I wish I could remember more from that night than I do, but my mind has created a void from the events that occurred after that man broke in.

“Emmy, you need to snap out of this. People are concerned. Everyone knows the connection you had with Tucker, so they gave you a break. I suggested to your boss that they give you leave. But you had your time off, and you still think that damned dog is alive. I.. I.. they think you’ve gone crazy,” she says. “Show me the ashes. Your father and I gave you the urn for a reason.” She directs me to the dark, flowered vase sitting on the top shelf of my bookcase.

What the hell is going on? I took Tucker for a walk just yesterday. I would know if he’s dead. Why can’t I remember anything about the night of the break-in?  

I open the vase hesitantly: If Tucker’s remains are in here, then what does that mean for the past six months? I don’t know what would be worse, finding his body reduced to ashes that have sat on my bookshelf for half a year, or the repercussions of my mind gone mad, imagining a dog that apparently was never there.

The vase is empty; and I am left feeling numb.

“Get out, mom,” I said. “I need to be alone, and I don’t want to be called crazy in my own home. Tucker is alive. He is alive.”

I can’t sleep. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again. My thoughts are betraying me. My wandering mind leaves me lying awake in the darkest hours of the night. Over and over, I recount the events of the day: my mother telling me Tucker is dead, finding an empty urn where his ashes were supposed to be held, forcing my mother to leave in a hurry as I think about what she told me.

There’s a strange smell in here. Where is it coming from? I walk the corners of my room, flashlight in one hand and my other hand holding my nose.

A strong rotting odor wafts from the drawer of my dresser. What had I left in there that could smell so awful?

I reached toward the knob with a cold, trembling hand. The flashlight creates a beacon for fear and unease as the drawer slides open. A swarm of flies buzz through my bedroom, and my legs go faint as I watch fattened maggots and pink rubbery worms leap through the hollowed, rotting crevices of Tucker’s decaying body.

I can’t stand up; can’t walk straight; can’t fucking think straight.

Get out of here. It’s not safe. I might remember if I stay.

I left with nothing: no keys, wallet, no shoes even.

Just keep walking. Past the corner. Past the block. Past the bridge. Just get out of the city.

I do as I’m told until I can’t walk anymore. I stop on a corner up near the Bronx, a block or so from the Hudson River Parkway. Stopping every so often to figure out where I was, I see Tucker’s cheerful face peer around the corner of a three-story brick walk up.

Follow him. But don’t ask him how he’s out here when his thinning, decaying body in the bedside dresser. I’m not going to like the answer.

I do as I am told. With each small stride, memories from the night of the break in flood my mind.

I wake up in what seems to be a hospital room. Thin, crumpled sheets a disgusting shade of blue cover my body. There is a cold, metal handcuff tightened to each of my hands, which dangle from the rails of the bed.

Still fighting the grogginess of a deep sleep, I vividly recall passing out on a random sidewalk in New York. It couldn’t have happened too long ago; I can still feel a sharp pain in the part of my head that hit the concrete, and the small scrape on my right elbow.

My mother is sitting in the far corner of the room. Her petite stature is hunched over as she clutches her stomach. Beside her is an unfamiliar man, a doctor I presume from the white coat he’s proudly wearing. Neither of them knows I’m awake, so I try and listen to their conversation.

“I believe your daughter suffered a psychotic break,” the doctor speaks with a deep, smooth voice. “Has she been through anything traumatic recently? A death, maybe, or a breakup? The mind can put up great walls of defense to protect us from further heartbreak or damage.”

A psychotic break? So I am fucking crazy. Should I tell them about Tucker.. How his dead body is in my apartment right now.

“It wasn’t just a break-in,” I say with a tired voice. My mother and doctor run to my side.

“There’s a dead dog in my dresser, and I think I put him there. The man who broke in six months ago entered my bedroom as I slept. I don’t know what he looks like, he was wearing a mask. I remember his large frame standing over me as he reached towards the zipper of his pants. I remember Tucker, in an attempt to protect me from this man, ran into the room, his eyes wide with fear and anger. I remember his barking, loud and clear and begging for someone outside to hear him and get help. I remember the numbness that reached my heart and spread throughout my body as the man bent over and snapped Tucker’s tender neck with his large hands. I remember. Fuck, I remember. How could I forget that Tucker died? What’s happening to me?”

When the following year’s May showers slowed, my doctors decide I am ‘fit to leave,’ I had the remains of Tucker cremated and forged into gems that I wear on a bracelet.

When my thoughts get bad and I feel my mind slipping like it did before, I hold my wrist and drag my finger along the ridges of the gems in an up-and down motion, as I did when rubbing between Tucker’s eyes.

I think I am slipping back into reality. One I am unfamiliar with, but it is real life nonetheless. A life without Tucker, and I recognize that now.