It happens at least once a week.

You’ll walk into the room expecting the usual tail wiggle, the nose boop, maybe even a sock theft. But instead, you find Abbi sitting perfectly still—ears perked, body motionless, eyes fixed on a completely blank stretch of wall.

No birds. No bugs. No sounds.

Just… staring.

What does she see? What is she thinking about? Is she reflecting on the great mysteries of life? Is she remembering that one time she didn’t catch the tennis ball and pretended she meant to let it drop? Is she pondering the true purpose of the vacuum? We may never know. Because in that moment, Abbi looks less like a Boston Terrier and more like a tiny philosopher. A fur-covered poet. A soft, snorting monk contemplating the universe.

Sometimes her brow furrows, like she’s this close to solving quantum physics. Other times, her tongue just slightly peeks out as if she’s considering whether the moon is, in fact, made of cheese. And then—just like that—she snaps out of it. She shakes her ears, hops off the couch, and sprints after a dust bunny like nothing ever happened. As if her deep cosmic download has concluded and it’s time to return to Earth. We’ll never really know what goes on in those long, silent stares into space. But maybe that’s the beauty of it. Maybe Abbi’s trying to teach us something: to pause. To ponder. To enjoy the quiet. Or, more likely… to remember where we last left the peanut butter jar.

Either way, she makes it look wise.