Finding Miriel

By Morgan J. Manns

Footsteps creak across the upstairs floorboards, and I crack open an eye. Golden sunlight spills through the oversized bay window and across the fluffy white carpet. My tail wags. It’s my favorite time of day—one we never miss.

The air shimmers.

Miriel’s footsteps are no longer above. She’s sliding into her armchair by the window. I raise my head, concern flickering through me. Did she just—

“Come, pup,” she says, gazing outside. “Our friends are here.” Her white hair is tied into a bun.

I’m no longer a pup, but I adore the nickname all the same. I shake off my worry and stretch, letting out a yawn that trails from the tips of my paws to the top of my head.

I pad past Miriel’s basket of yarn and follow her gaze. Flustered birds lunge toward the bird feeder. Curious, I search for the cause of the commotion.

Miriel chuckles. “Naughty Phezz wants all the food for himself.”

I spot the chittering culprit—a squirrel has claimed the feeder as his throne.

I refrain from barking. Miriel isn’t fond of me startling the squirrels, especially those she’s named.

She picks up her knitting needles as I settle at her feet. “I think I’ll knit you a scarf today, Matteo.”

My tail wags in appreciation.

The rhythmic click of her needles fills the room. “The weather’s turning chilly. Best we…”

The click of her needles stops. I turn, ears perked; a faraway look clouds her eyes—one I always dread. I whine, low and soft.

Miriel blinks and shakes her head, a frown crossing her face. “Hmm, yes… a blanket will be perfect.”

Blanket? Hadn’t she said she was knitting a scarf?

A knot within my chest tightens. Her memory is slipping. Again.

Another whine escapes me.

“What? No blanket?” she murmurs, rubbing her temple. “What would you like then?”

Eager to help her remember, I pad over to my dog bed and retrieve another one of the scarves she’s knitted me. I turn to show her.

But the chair is empty. The knitting needles, yarn, and Miriel are gone.

I bark, and the scarf slips from my mouth. Miriel!

I bolt for the kitchen. She’s not there.

I race upstairs to her bedroom, but the bed is neatly made.

I sniff through the house. No sign. No sound.

I bark—once, twice, three times—but there’s no answer. No familiar voice, no, “Matteo, I’m here, you silly pup.”

My hair stands on end. Unlike the other times, she’s not just traveled to another room. She’s disappeared.

I race to the back door and push through the snug doggie-door out into the yard. The garden is empty. Her favorite spot—the place she tends with such care—is empty

Pacing the yard, I think. With the blink of an eye, she can move from one room to another, from upstairs to downstairs, all without realizing it. The thing is, when other humans are around, her ability doesn’t trigger. So maybe she’s stuck somewhere and can’t travel home.

I bark in frustration. Another bark echoes back.

Bruno! I bark, running to the fence. Have you seen Miriel?

The neighboring lab peers one eye through the knothole between the boards. Not since this morning, he replies. Heard her throwing seed to the backyard birds, but that’s it.

The birds!

I dash around to the front of the house and start digging furiously beside the fence. Bruno barks questions, but I don’t stop. I dig until the earth gives way and squeeze through the gap. I emerge into the front yard in time to see a squirrel scampering up a nearby tree.

There’s no time to give chase.

I head for the little corner store, a place we visit often.

Panting, I weave through people on the sidewalk, ignoring their gasps and shouts.

I reach the store and dart inside as someone exits. I bark, which elicits more stares, but Miriel doesn’t respond. I run down the aisle straight to where the birdseed is kept. Only the bags, with the pictures of birds on their labels, stare back at me. I whine, confused. She always gets seed from here for her birds and for the…

A memory sparks hope!

I turn and dash toward the exit, but a man in a white apron blocks my path.

“I’ve called animal control,” he says firmly.

I don’t hesitate. I charge, and as he steps aside, I dart through the door and back into the street.

Hours later, my paws ache from the long run. The smell of hot dogs teases my stomach, but I can’t stop. Not yet. I won’t rest until I find Miriel. She would do the same for me.

I keep moving, my tail dragging behind me, putting every ounce of hope into this final place—the park. Another place she loves. We’ve watched her favorite creatures here so many times.

A man with a leash exits a white truck and strides purposefully towards me.

I swallow hard. Animal control?

I slink round the corner of the path, looking for a place to hide, but then I spot her—Miriel. Her white hair a knot of softness against the evening sun. She’s sitting on a bench, knitting needles in hand, watching adoringly as squirrels scamper past.

Then, she looks up. “Ah, there you are, pup. Look, I’ve just finished.”

She holds up a completed scarf, the same vibrant green as the trees around her.

Relief washes over me. I step closer.

Does she realize she transported herself here? Does she remember? I sigh. At least she’s safe.

I hear the man approaching and quickly press against Miriel. He doesn’t yet see—

In a flash, my paws are on carpet. I swing my head around and find Miriel back in her favorite armchair. She wraps the scarf gently around my neck. “Fits perfectly.”

We’re home.

Exhausted, I lay my head on her lap.

I will always find my Miriel, wherever she ends up.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Morgan J. Manns is a speculative fiction author with a soft spot for the fantastical. She’s a mom to two little hobbits, wife to a man who listens patiently to all her wild ideas, and a lover of all things nature. By day, she’s a school teacher; by heart, a dragon rider in waiting. You’ll most likely find her writing her next adventure while basking in a patch of sunlight.

---

More Stories | Instagram