Chapter 1

Little Zoe can hardly remember the early days, but she remembers they were sweet.

She lies on her unwashed bed in a dusty corner of the kitchen, and she remembers being brushed, and picked up and patted. She remembers snuggling with the kids when they were little, cuddling with them when they were sick, and playing outside – running and jumping, the sounds of their voices guiding her – and she remembers the sunshine, warm on her face.

Little Zoe doesn't remember which child, or what bed, or what month. Those days are too far away, and too much life has happened between then and now.

But this afternoon, the family gathers for Thanksgiving and no one reaches out to her, and she remembers when they did.

She is just a little dog who has had bad vision her whole life and is nearly blind now. She is just a little dog who was loved and adored, but now is mostly forgotten.

There was a time when she'd have greeted every member of the Miller family as they came in to the house. She'd have said hello to the relatives, and sat with them in the living room. She'd have trotted around the Thanksgiving table, hoping for scraps of the feast – and she'd have gotten them.

Remembering, and smelling the sweet scents of cooking meat and steaming vegetables, she gets up, stretches and edges into the kitchen. She can't really see, but she can smell, and she knows where everything is, all the table legs, all the chairs.

She comes up close to the counter where Mary Ellen is standing, mixing something sweet. Mary Ellen is talking to her mother, Judy, who only comes to the house a few times a year. 

The women don't notice Zoe, until she sit up on her back legs and puts her front paws together and begs.

"Is that the same dog?" Judy says.

"Same dog," Mary Ellen says. "Zoe. She's blind."

"You've had her for ages," Judy says.

"Thirteen years," says Mary Ellen. "And not much longer."

"What does that mean?" asks Judy.

"Tom's getting another dog," says Judy. "Bringing him home tomorrow. Something that can really guard the house. A big dog."

"What are you going to do with this dog?"

Mary Ellen shrugs. "I don't know. Put her down, maybe. I'd bring her to the pound, but look at her. No one would take her."

Little Zoe hears their voices, but she doesn't know what they're saying. She puts her paws together and gestures, begging, pleading, looking as cute as she can.

The kids, now teenagers, come laughing in through the back door. The boy sticks his finger into the sweet thing his mother is stirring, and she slaps his hand. They say hello to their grandmother, ask when dinner is, and stomp up the stairs to change. They don't even notice Zoe.

So she goes back to her bed in the dusty corner, away from all the traffic and the noise, away from the food and the light and the love they once gave her, and she falls to sleep and dreams of better times.