Mom, I’m Still Waiting… Right Where You Left Me

On a dusty roadside under the scorching sun, a lone dog sat silently on an old recliner. Not barking. Not running. Just waiting…

They say I’m just a thing. Easy to leave behind when I’m no longer needed. But I didn’t know that. I only knew: you told me to sit—so I sat.

When the car drove off, I thought you’d come right back. Maybe you forgot something. Maybe you went to get my favorite treats. So I waited. Because waiting—that’s what I’m best at.

For two whole days, I didn’t move. I didn’t eat. I was scared of the loud cars and the wind, but I stayed—right where you left me.

Then a lady stopped. She was kind. Reached her hand out. Invited me for dinner. I said no.

She asked me to come home with her. I said no again.

When she brought out a leash, I panicked. I growled, barked, even peed myself. I wasn’t being bad—I just didn’t want to leave the spot you told me to wait at.

She brought me home.

A clean house. Soft blankets. Gentle words. But I didn’t eat. I threw up. I barked, hoping you’d hear me and come find me.

She calls me “Milo” now. But that’s not my name. I remember my name—it’s the one you used every night before bed, when you’d stroke my fur and whisper, “Good boy.”

She’s so kind, Mom. She feeds me. She gives me a warm place to sleep. She even leaves a light on for me at night.

Today, I wagged my tail when she said good morning. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.

If you’re reading this… I just want you to know:

I didn’t leave you. I was taken. And I’m still waiting—until the day you come back for me.