It’s a quiet house. An empty house. You don’t hear the rat-a-tat-tat of toenails on the hardwood floors. Or feel hot breath on your kneecaps at dinner. There’s no need for spastic, acrobatic leaps when you turn around at the fridge, realizing an instant too late there’s a dog sitting at your feet. She would scramble out of the way when she saw I was about to topple on her.