Mom's Best Friend by Peter McKay on Creators.com

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For the past week, my wife has been out of town for work. The kids and I have fared fairly well. I can sort of cook, and the kids have learned over the years to have low expectations when Dad's in charge. The dog, however, is another matter.

Harry, a worn-out, smelly, old West Highland Terrier made it clear that he only loved my wife. He would tolerate the rest of us, but not without letting us know on a daily basis. He doesn't bite or growl, but you can tell from his cool reaction that he wishes he were an only child of a single mother. If one of the kids left for a week, it wouldn't really register with Harry. Were I to disappear completely, he would probably high-five himself with his dirty little paws.

The first day that my wife was gone, Harry wandered the house over and over again looking for her. He'd pick up her scent, follow it through the house and then stop, aggravated and confused when it resulted in a dead-end. Then he'd do this weird, high-pitched whine you can barely hear, but it could drive you insane. This noise he makes never bothers him, of course, because he's been deaf for about a year.

In addition to being deaf, dirty and unsociable, he has a pathological fear of being alone. He follows my wife around the house, as if she has his leash tied to her ankle. Because he can't hear her come in, he sleeps with his back to the front door so he can feel it open and know someone's come to save him, like a living doorstop. Every once in a while, his tail gets caught under the door.

As he wandered, looking for his one true love, I'd stamp on the floor (while he can't hear, he can feel the vibrations). When I caught his attention, I'd mime out that he could come sit with me. After two days of being rebuffed, I stopped offering comfort — just stamped and then mimed out other gestures he probably couldn't understand.

Each night during this long week, after the kids and I had gone to bed, Harry would sit on the bottom step and cry, his "ooowwwooohs" wafting up the steps like we're haunted by the spirit of Lassie.

For years, our sons had taken him to sleep on their beds, but awhile back, our 15-year-old declared an end to this practice. Harry spent the entire night wandering back and forth or scratching and chewing on his butt. As my son said, "You try to sleep with the sound of someone licking themselves!"

Then on the fourth night, I awoke at 5 in the morning to Harry barking downstairs. It was a kind of bark that I hadn't heard before, the kind that indicated some serious issue. I stumbled out of bed and came downstairs to find Harry in the front hall. He was hopping around like a much younger, more alert dog. He ran to the front door, hopped up and down, and waited. Maybe, I thought, this wasn't so much an emergency but a priority bathroom break. I let him out.

While I waited for him to come back in, I wandered into the kitchen to get a drink of water. I stopped at the door. Harry had gotten into the broom closet where we keep the trash, pulled over the can, and shredded each and every piece of food, every bag, every box, and then spread it over the entire kitchen floor. Coffee grounds were smeared in a big 6-foot circle. He was clearly making a statement.

At breakfast, I sat the kids down and explained the seriousness of the situation. I knew Harry missed Mom, but this was enough. I told them how on the plains of Africa, once a lion has tasted human flesh, it had to be tracked down and destroyed because it could never go back. It was the same with dogs and garbage. Unfortunately, if we all didn't try to bond with the dog a little more in this time of need, I would be forced to shoot Harry.

The night before she came home, my wife called to check in. She asked how we'd all done without her.

"Everybody misses you," I said, "and we can't wait till you get here."

Then she asked about Harry.

"The dog?" I responded, "I haven't worked out all the details yet, but we're probably going to need a new one."

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