Look—

I’m not sayin' this guy kidnapped her, (did he? better bark, just in case)
                  but she left at one— (curious timing)
                    and at almost-six, (dinner time)
            this Spare human walks in  (not Mom)
     like he’s not totally suspicious, (he is)
                holding a liver treat… (psychological tactics: strong)

     like it’s some kind of bribe      (it definitely is)
     to forget the felony-in-progress. (call the pawlice, I know my rights!)

Fine. I’ll eat the treat.

We get my stuff—my blanket, my bowls—
          and suddenly we’re outside,
          waiting for a car

          that can’t find its own tail, much less Mom’s apartment.

Second car rolls up,
       and I’m hot, frustrated,
       giving Spare my best side-eye

       for making me late to see Mom at Irby’s.

Spoiler alert: She wasn’t there.

I checked every human coming through the gate,
                    ears perked, tail hopeful—
                          no Mari, just Spare,
               chatting about some "hackathon"

           like it matters more than Mom-time.

After enough sighing,
      we end up at the Westin.

Sleep hits hard—
      though apparently,
      Spare needs my help

      to get more than five hours.

You’re welcome, human.

Morning comes—

Cheese on breakfast? (I demand more)

Not bad.

Suspiciously good, actually.

Maybe he’s not the worst kidnapper? (jury’s still out)

Then he drags me
     on a march across Buckhead,
      through heat and pavement,
                          until—

Wait. Is that *Petsmart*?

Okay, fine.

I sniff every toy,
  consider every bag.

The polka-dot pig with a grunt?

Irresistible. You win, Spare.

More treats? Obviously.

Beef bones? What took so long?

New blanket for Irby’s?

Yeah, that’s better.

Goodies acquired,
    more walking?

I’m not sure how long we’ve been out,
    but I'm ready to try the new toy,

    and about to protest when…

I spot the Sylvan.
  I know that place—

Mom goes there with Spare.

I try pulling him inside,
  thinking she’ll be there waiting, (because where else would she be?)

  but no luck.

Fine. Off to Irby’s patio, then.

I know we’ve got goodies.

I know the Spare will cave.

And he does. (he always does)

Treats, toys, attention— (not bad, Spare)
  but it’s never enough.

Every time a door opens,
  I whine just a little,
            ears perked,
hoping she’ll stride in,
rescue me from this spare sitter.

Don’t get me wrong,
      he’s decent company.

He tries.

But he’s not her.

I keep thinking:
       "Any minute now,
       Mom’s gonna walk in,
       and Spare will go back to his barstool."

But it never happens—
         Every scent,
            not hers.
         Every voice,
            too deep.

And until then…

I’ll eat the treats,
     chew the bones,
 accept the cuddles—

but Spare, trust me:

The moment she’s back,
    you better believe…

    you’re farkin' *demoted*.