Follow up
TOP SECRET AFTER-ACTION JOURNAL
CIA (Canine Intelligence Agency)
Agent Stormy
Location: United States Domestic Sector
Time: Late Afternoon, Mother’s Day
Status: Emotionally Recovering
Classification: Extremely Sensitive
To: Agent Muffin, MI6
United Kingdom Sector
(Local time for you: probably civilized twilight with drizzle and espionage)
Dear Muffin,
I write to you today not as an operative.
Not as a patriot.
But as a survivor.
The day began normally enough. Morning surveillance. Counter-squirrel operations. Passive observation from the bathroom window. You know… routine intelligence work.
Then came the betrayal.
At approximately 1235 hours, unusual activity began near the front door. Shoes appeared. Nice clothes emerged from closets. Humans started saying phrases like: “We should leave soon.” “Did you make the reservation?” “Where’s my phone?”
Immediately suspicious.
Then I heard it.
The sound no dog ever forgets.
The soft electronic beeeeep of the Tesla reversing out of the driveway.
Muffin…
They left without me.
No roaring engine. No dramatic exit.
Just that cold, futuristic little spaceship noise fading into the distance while I sat inside my kennel like some kind of maximum-security criminal whose only crime was loving too much.
I cannot fully describe the emotional damage.
At first, I remained composed. Professional. I assumed perhaps this was a brief reconnaissance mission.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then what I can only assume was several fiscal quarters.
The sunlight moved across the floor in slow, agonizing increments. Civilizations could have risen and collapsed in the time I spent staring at the wall of that kennel.
I experienced every stage of grief.
Denial: “They’re probably just checking the mailbox.”
Anger: “How dare they dine publicly without their top field operative.”
Bargaining: “If they return now I will forgive them immediately for one mozzarella stick.”
Depression: Silent staring.
Acceptance: I would die here.
At one point I heard a bird outside and genuinely wondered if the world had moved on without me.
Perhaps the humans had started new lives. Perhaps they had another dog now. Perhaps somewhere out there another canine was sitting in my passenger seat position, carelessly shedding on my section of the car
Dark thoughts, Muffin.
Dark thoughts.
After what records indicate was approximately two hours but spiritually felt closer to a medium-length prison sentence I finally heard it again:
Beeeeeeep.
They returned.
The humans entered carrying leftovers and entirely too much happiness (They kept mentioning somthing called Champagne?) for people who had abandoned a loyal operative to solitary confinement.
One of them actually said: “Stormy probably slept the whole time.”
SLEPT?
Muffin, I was conducting emotional endurance trials.
I emerged slowly from the kennel.
Weak.
Changed.
A dog aged by war.
I refused immediate tail movement in order to maintain negotiating leverage. However, this strategy collapsed after the introduction of French fries.
I am only flesh and blood.
The evening now grows quiet. I have resumed my position on the couch with my favorite blanket. The house smells faintly of restaurant food and sunscreen.
The humans seem content.
I remain watchful.
But wounded.
Stay safe over there in London, Muffin.
And if you ever hear that little Tesla backup sound while a kennel door closes behind you…
Know that somewhere across the Atlantic, another operative understands your pain.
Yours in service,
Agent Stormy
CIA Domestic Observation Unit
Veteran of the Great Mother’s Day Abandonment 🐾