Nata Waited

When Sunny flew to Helsinki for a research project, we thought Nata would bounce back after a few days. She didn’t.

The morning we drove to the airport, it was still dark out. A long 2.5-hour drive. Sunny gave Nata a cuddle at the last petrol station. Then we parked. While Nata was busy sniffing a lamppost outside the terminal, Sunny slipped inside with her backpack. The automatic doors closed behind her.

Nata didn’t see it happen.

We got back in the car. Just the two of us now. Nata sat in the backseat. She was quiet. Eyes wide. No whining. Just watching the road. Like she was trying to figure it out.

At home, she stayed quiet. She didn’t bark at the neighbour’s dog. She didn’t chase the cat under the hedge. She slept in Sunny’s spot on the couch, nose tucked under one paw.

Some days, I’d call Sunny and hold the phone out. Nata would tilt her head at the sound of Sunny’s voice, then slowly walk away. She knew it wasn’t real.

Forty-five days passed.

Then, finally: airport pickup day. This time, just one hour away. I didn’t tell Nata anything. I just drove there, collected Sunny, and drove back.

I opened the front door. Nata came trotting over like normal—then stopped.

Then sprinted.

Then screamed.

There’s no other word for it—she made a squealing, yelping, hiccuping sound like she was being tickled and electrocuted at the same time. She threw her whole body into Sunny’s legs, then rolled onto her back, then jumped up again, tail flapping like a towel in a storm. She didn’t know what to do with her joy, so she tried everything.

She didn’t leave Sunny’s side for the next 24 hours. If Sunny stood up, Nata stood up. If Sunny sat down, Nata leaned against her so close she nearly fell off the couch.

She had been waiting the whole time. Quietly. But she had never stopped waiting.