the shape of what's missing.
An "attempted robbery," they called it. The police not bothering with fingerprints because, "You'll understand miss, our DNA resources are already maxed out." They called it an attempted robbery because there were so few things missing. A few musical instruments. A pair of sunglasses.
They called my Ragnar—my baby boy, the puppy that saved my life the moment I rescued him—a dog. He was so much more than that, but explaining that to people with no empathy towards animals is an exercise in futility.
Does anyone talk about the aftermath of a burglary? The sacredness of your home turned into something unrecognisable? Things touched, moved, violated.
I was away when it happened. Most of the chaos had been cleared by the time I returned, my mom sparing me this sight of drawers pulled out and clothing scattered across the floor. But she couldn't clean everything.
My makeup case was still open. Cosmetics strewn everywhere, as though whoever did this deliberately went through it all because they knew how much I loved every piece.
Why go through my makeup but leave the jewellery in plain sight? Why take sunglasses but not electronics?
I ended another call to a rescue centre that thought they might have him. Every time the phone rings, my chest tightens with hope I don't want to feel anymore. And every time it's not him, I thank them anyway, quietly hoping that the dog's best friend will find them.
Then I call the next place.
The local vet.
The police station.
A dog training school.
An out of province rescue centre.
Repeating his name like it's something that can lead him back to me...
I rescued Ragnar in 2020, at the height of the pandemic. The shelter called me. Said he was the runt. Said he was in the vet hospital and they couldn't keep him any longer. Said if I took him, he might not survive the night.
He was so small. Emaciated. He barely ate when we got home. I had bought him a bed, toys—everything he could possibly need. He ignored all of it. Within ten minutes, he climbed into my bed, curling into me like he was trying to warm me.
Ragnar survived that night.
And every night after that, he chose me.
He was a mouthy boy, full conversations, like he had things to say and needed me to understand. Protective, but never mean. The gentlest pitbull I have ever known. He cuddled my cats like they were of his own kin. A loverboy, some might say.
Nobody greets me at the door like he used to anymore. Nobody barks when a stranger gets too close. Now there’s just silence. And the quiet trauma left behind in the animals who are still here.
Amber—his best friend, a chaotic, loving labrador—is only now starting to come back to herself.
She plays again. Runs again. Lets herself be silly. But sometimes, when she thinks no one is watching, she goes to his bed. She pauses there. Looks at it. Then at his food bowl. Pushing his toys around with her nose but never playing with them.
The house looks the same, but it isn’t. There’s something in it now. Something wrong. The air feels disturbed, like it’s been handled. Like it remembers hands that don’t belong to us. Sometimes I catch my breath for no reason. Sometimes I feel like I’m not alone, even when I am.
It’s been four months. And I am trying to come back to life the way Amber is.
Slowly. Carefully. But I don’t know how.
I still fill Ragnar's bowl sometimes. I don’t realise I’ve done it until I hear the kibble hit the metal and the sound echoes too loudly in the kitchen. Amber watches me when I do it, her head tilted slightly, like she’s waiting for me to remember.
I used to empty it straight away. Stand there, staring at it, angry at myself for pretending.
Now I leave it. Just for a little while.
The house still doesn’t feel like mine. It still breathes differently, like it remembers something I don’t want to know. But there are moments, small, fragile ones, where the air shifts.
When Amber runs and plays again.
When the silence doesn’t press so hard against my chest. When I can stand in a room and not imagine hands where they don’t belong.
I don’t know if Ragnar is coming back.
I don’t know if this place will ever feel like home again. But sometimes, in those quieter moments, it almost does.
