By week two, I’d grown used to the sound of my name.
“Bailey,” she’d say softly as I walked by.
“Bailey,” when she placed food down.
“Bailey,” when I pressed my head into her palm without realizing.
It wasn’t just a sound anymore. It meant safety. Belonging. Me.
But on day nine… everything changed.
It started with a click.
Then a hum.
Then a roar.
I bolted behind the couch.
The floor monster had awakened.
She called it “the vacuum.” I called it betrayal.
It growled and ate everything in its path — invisible crumbs, a leaf I’d lovingly brought in, even the corner of my toy giraffe. And she followed it willingly, pushing it around like some kind of leashless beast.
My tail vanished beneath me. I didn’t bark. Didn’t growl. Just… watched. Trembled. Waited for the growling to stop.
She noticed.
That night, after the vacuum went back into its cave (a hall closet), she sat on the floor again. This time with a bag of calming peanut butter chews. She didn’t offer them like a bribe. Just left one near my bed. And waited.
I didn’t take it right away. But I sniffed it later, quietly. Then again. Then tasted.
I liked it.
I liked her more.
The next day, the vacuum came out again — but this time, I had a chew before it roared.
I still hid. But I peeked out.
The day after that? I watched from the other room.
By the end of the week, I could stay in the same space, curled on my orthopedic dog cushion while it did its weird floor thing.
She noticed.
And that night, she placed her hand on my back — not asking for anything. Just being there.
I didn’t move away.
I think that meant something.