She mentioned scooping the cat liter and taking out the trash. It was subtle. I try my best with the mind reading. After scooping into a plastic grocery bag and putting in the trash, we get distracted chitchatting. Laughing about something. "You're going to wash your hands, right?" I was but got distracted. Ultimately I forgot to take the trash out. My sense of scent isn't like her bloodhound nose post-chemo.

'I just want to be a good dog.'

That night, her laughter spilled from her room between coughing fits—deep, rattling things. She’d cut back on smoking inside after the neighbors complained, but the engine damage lingered. I've made it almost two years without that crap, but after daily use for almost two decades, I understand how helpful it is to some people. There is a bug going around. I wondered if I should offer my inhaler. Held back. My work hours were too few to risk getting sick.

She's stressed about to waking up early to catch the 8 bus. Then my own cough erupted—loud, involuntary. Ten minutes of choking on nothing. She tells me to quiet down so she can get to sleep. Sorry, I'll find a cough drop. No problem.

She's still moving around. Gets up goes downstairs. Is muttering angrily and slams the door. I have no idea what is going on. A text: _Took out the trash again. Night._ I'm so confused. How did we fill two trash bags today? Then the recognition: Oh. The dog makes this face too.

Stillness. Safety. The art of being small. I just want to be a good dog.

Morning came with an apology--overreacted. Even at her worst, it's way better than the monsters from the past. The ghosts we had both outrun.

Then I left the shower drain clogged. A mistake. Not a war. After church service ended, the blow up text was there with the softening right after. 'I'm not your maid.' We're the same, I realized. Both afraid waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Money was tight. My summer starvation season means rice and canned beans; her DoorDash orders taunt me. It's not that I want the food, just to have the relative luxury to not penny pinch and to be able to afford groceries. We’d agreed to share food, but her diabetes might make every carb a landmine.

Her pretty man-friend came over—the same one she said she never wanted at the house ever again. I don't understand human dating and shifting boundaries. It's like the dog's pee spots: shifting, invisible, and punished retroactively.

The dog is getting better and more comfortable with regular walks. They know they aren't in trouble and don't need to be scared. Maybe we all need that..

Tomorrow maybe I can find a chore chart to put on the fridge. Everyone is safe, but handling the aftermath of chaos differently.