When my wife leaves town, I waste no time—but not in the way people might think.

The moment her car disappears down the street, the house grows strangely quiet. The ticking clock sounds louder, the couch feels too big, and the bed suddenly seems far too empty. That’s when I make a call.

My best friend comes right over. She doesn’t knock—she never has to. She pads into the bedroom, hops onto the bed, and curls up beside me. We lie there together, sharing warmth and silence until the loneliness fades. Nothing dramatic. Just comfort.

She’s loyal, gentle, and somehow always knows exactly how I’m feeling. She listens without judgment and offers reassurance without words. Sometimes we nap. Sometimes we just lie there, breathing in sync.

Before my wife comes home, I always wash the sheets. Not out of guilt—just habit. Clean sheets feel right. Like resetting the house before everything returns to normal.

One afternoon, though, things nearly took a turn.

My best friend and I were mid-snuggle when I heard a car pull into the driveway. My heart jumped. Had my wife come back early? Footsteps approached the door. I sat up, suddenly aware of how this might look.

The door opened—and my wife burst out laughing.

There I was on the bed, and beside me was our golden retriever, stretched out happily, tail wagging like she’d been caught doing something silly.

“I knew she’d keep you company,” my wife said, scratching her ears.

And just like that, the tension vanished.

Sometimes comfort isn’t complicated. Sometimes it’s clean sheets, a shared laugh, and a loyal dog who knows exactly when you need her.