It started on a Wednesday, right after my dad passed.
I came home from the hospital, collapsed on the porch step, and cried until the light burned out above me.
Bailey came and rested her head on my knee. She didn’t lick me or wag her tail. She just sat there. Like she understood that some silences need to stay quiet.
She had this habit — every night around 9, she’d go sit by the porch light. Just… sit. Sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes longer. Staring into the dark like she was waiting for someone. It started after he died. I don’t know if it was grief or instinct or just Bailey being Bailey.
One night, I joined her.
She was already curled up on the porch, her head resting on the doormat. I sat beside her with a mug of tea. The air was cool. Still. We didn’t look at each other.
Then she did this thing she never does — she got up, left, and came back dragging her favorite fleece blanket in her mouth. The one we kept in her crate but never used anymore. She dropped it at my feet, gave one soft bark, then laid back down beside me.
From that night on, we had a pact: 9 PM. Porch. No matter what.
The seasons changed.
Grief dulled into memories. And Bailey? She kept her post.
One night, it rained. I opened the door, thinking she’d skip it. She looked at me like, Really? You’re bailing now? So I grabbed a hoodie and followed her out.
She laid down. I sat beside her, the blanket draped over both of us, and we listened to the rain ping off the railing. I swear I could feel my dad’s presence then. Not heavy like before. Just… warm.
Bailey’s 11 now. She’s got some stiffness in her back legs, so we added a padded joint-support mat under the porch bench for her. I think she likes that more than the porch itself.
She still shows up. Still brings the blanket.
And now, so do I.