(c)@26.0608-1102.00 by AtaraxiA under Creative Commons CC BY-SA license
SUMMARY: Thalia reflects on the bond between Polly and Gus, who grew up together as siblings in the Hahnestery. She describes their routines, like Polly’s vigilance by the window and Gus’s supervisory patrols, and their shared meals with the humans. Their companionship brings warmth and rhythm to daily life.
Dear Marla,
The rhythm of the Hahnestery is as much about the animals as it is about us. Polly and Gus, now both three or four years old, have woven themselves into the fabric of our days so seamlessly that it’s hard to imagine the house without their presence. They grew up together—kitten and puppy—chasing each other through the halls, napping in sunbeams, and now, they move through the world as if they’ve always known their roles.
Polly, the Dalmatian dog, is my shadow. When I step outside, she’s there, unfazed by rain or wind, her little raincoat glistening with droplets. She has her chair by the big window in the living room, where she keeps watch like a sentinel. If a squirrel dares to scamper by or a bear ambles into view, her bark is sharp and excited, a warning and a greeting all at once. At dinner, she joins us in her own way, lying sphinx-like on the floor with her bowl between her paws, savoring each kibble as if it’s a ritual. And in a way, it is.
Gus, on the other hand, is the house’s silent supervisor. He drifts from room to room, patrolling, checking corners and stairwells as if ensuring everything is in order. He’ll disappear when the vacuum roars to life, but otherwise, he’s there—watching, dozing, or occasionally rubbing against Polly’s leg in a gesture so tender it makes my heart ache. They sleep together sometimes, curled up in a tangle of paws and tails, as if reminding each other they’re not alone.
James rings the little bell at 4:30 sharp for cocktail time, and Polly is already at the porch door, tail wagging, waiting for them to settle outside. Gus, ever the opportunist, will often stretch out nearby, soaking in the warmth of their company. They know the routines as well as we do: the morning feed, the evening meal, the quiet hours in between.
It’s a kind of harmony, Marla. The way they’ve learned to live with us, and we with them. They’re more than pets—they’re family. And in their own way, they teach me about loyalty, about presence, about the quiet joy of simply being together.
