We heard the rumble of the engine even before we saw the truck. Sadly, we knew what it meant. The movers were here. Not at our house, but across the street. They'd come for Wrigley's stuff, to move her and her family out East.
     My husband said he'd miss his daily chats with Wrigley. Two-a-days, really. He'd take our Daisy outside for her morning and evening constitutionals and Wrigley would look out the window alongside her front door. Not watching them, my husband told me, more like watching over them. She never barked, just sat there or laid on the floor in front of the glass and kept her eyes on our front yard. "I found myself talking to her," my husband said. "I'd look across the street and ask what her plans were or how her day had gone. I never thought it was crazy, just one friend catching up with another."
     Nearly the last people to move into our complex, Wrigley's parents had bought the model with the unfinished lower level. We'd heard from the sales person they were newlyweds, moving here from out West. Young professionals with great smiles and personalities to match; for some reason, they fit right in with all of us oldsters.
     They were alone the first year and then they brought her home—Wrigley, a Golden Retriever puppy. We could tell she'd be a charmer. A young neighbor became Wrigley's sitter. She'd let herself in to the house after school and take the dog out for a potty break and some exercise. As Wrigley grew, her sitter got more of a workout. One afternoon, as I turned into our circle, I saw a blur of golden fur and blonde pony tail go past my window, Wrigley in the lead.
     Just months ago, Wrigley's parents brought home a new baby sister, Grace. A real live doll. By then, we knew they were leaving—a career opportunity in Manhattan. It's not like we'd done so much with them, just some winter holiday parties and National Night Out in the summer. It was the every day stuff—waves at the driveway, chats at the mailboxes, updates on the lower level remodeling project-we'd miss. A part of our life would be going out East, also.
     It doesn't seem like four-and-a-half years is a long time to live across the street from people, but this family is special. Even with the snow and wind, I knew when the doorbell rang on New Year's Eve, it would be Wrigley's mom. Sure enough, the day before they were to leave, she'd come to deliver a recipe I'd requested. She also brought a magazine with an article about the creator of one of my favorite TV shows. That's the kind of people they are.
     "Come see us," she said. "Our door will always be open."
     It's only for two years, they'd assured everyone at the holiday get-together last month. But in two years a lot could change. Baby Grace will be a toddler and Wrigley will have found another old guy and his dog to look after.
     "Do you think they see us?" I asked my husband as we waved good-bye from our front window the next day. Their car made its way down the driveway and just before they turned left, Wrigley's mom looked toward our house. I blew a kiss their way. She returned it.
     "Godspeed, good luck," we whispered.
     My husband is sure he saw Wrigley looking out the back window at us. I hope so.