The QA Chief & The Puppy: A Love Story in 3-Day Increments
He sees me.
Four legs become two in an instant—but he doesn’t jump. Just two little auuuls escape. He waits.
Waits while I take off my boots, unload my bags, hang my coat.
Only then—then—he sprints straight into my soul.
This is what fieldwork looks like when your best friend has four legs and no concept of time zones.
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Before There Was Us
I’ve wanted a pawed companion for so long, but onsite life just didn’t allow it.
So when I finally landed a rotation in Saint Petersburg—one with a stable home base—I knew this might be my only window.
If I kept waiting for the “perfect” moment, I’d probably miss it altogether.
So I dove in. Two books, dozens of blogs, and too many “how to train your puppy” videos later… I met Осень.
February, cold wind, warm paws.
And just like that, I became a field chief with a second job title: dog mom.
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1. The Field Rotation Equation: You Go. They Wait.
I work a 3/3 rhythm—three days in the city, three in the field.
Every Tuesday I leave for site; every Thursday night I return.
Two nights might not sound like much, but try explaining “see you in 72 hours” to a creature who doesn’t understand clocks.
I’m good with goodbyes. In fact, the space between people—even the ones I love—can feel like oxygen.
But this? This separation? It hits different.
So I find ways to stay connected:
• Checking the cameras at night
• Video calling friends who dogsit
• Panic-ordering toys and treats online
• Letting him destroy one pair of slippers per rotation (RIP)
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2. The Welcome-Home Protocol (aka Our Reunion Ritual)
Man, every Thursday feels like праздник. A little holiday.
I count down the drive home like a kid on her first road trip—“Are we there yet?” every five minutes.
I check the camera before arriving. He’s usually already at the door.
Waiting.
I step in. He rises on his back feet—ears flat, eyes soft.
He doesn’t jump. He circles.
He waits until the bags are down, then sniffs every zipper and buckle like a little customs agent.
And then—the moment.
I sit on the floor. I open my arms.
He launches into them like he’s been waiting forever.
We walk. Always.
Long walks that rinse the guilt of leaving and remind both of us:
“I’m here.”
“I missed you.”
“I’ll take care of you.”
He listens like a CEO receiving a performance review: attentive, composed, ready for action.
Whispering inside, “You’re a good mom.”
Saying out loud, “You’re a good boy.”
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3. A Puppy’s Perspective on Project Life
Now I’m no Jack London, but if I had to guess what goes through that tiny floofy head…
“That bag again… is she leaving?”
“That’s not mom. She smells different.”
“Why hasn’t she come back? It’s been years.”
“They don’t share blueberries like she does.”
“Wait—is that a key?”
“MOM?! MOM!!! I have so many things to tell you. Let’s walk—no, let’s run—wait, I peed—whatever, LOVE ME!”
“Smells weird in your bag. What is this? Sand? Betrayal?”
“Zoomies indoors? Yes.”
“Snuggles? Absolutely.”
“Where are you going? I thought we were peeing together?”
“I love this road. It smells like home. Let’s RUN!”
At site, I might be the chief.
But at home? I report directly to HR. (Home Reintegration.)
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4. What He’s Taught Me About Loyalty, Routine, and Showing Up
In just two months with Осень, I’ve learned this:
Dogs understand consistency better than we do.
I’m in awe of how quickly he adapted—how naturally he synced with my rhythm.
He knows when I leave, when I return, when it’s time to sleep.
He doesn’t fight the cycle; he just lives it with me.
He’s taught me what it means to be responsible for something beyond myself and my job.
He’s taught me the quiet power of presence.
The value of showing up—not just physically, but fully.
In this love story, there’s no grand romantic gesture.
Just a look.
An auuul.
And a silence that says, “I knew you’d come back.”
We’re all someone ‘s field project. Someone’s waiting at home.
And to sum it up, it all comes to this calculation:
What I Pack Before a Rotation / What I Unpack After It
What I Pack:
– 2-day supply of guilt (pre-measured)
– 1 camera app open 24/7
– A last treat I swore I’d use for training (but always forget at home)
– 3 toys (he’ll ignore all of them)
– Slippers I don’t even bother hiding anymore
– A whispered “I’ll be back”
– A plan to walk longer next time. Make it up to him. Be better.
What I Unpack:
– One exploded toy I didn’t remember leaving with him
– A shoe I definitely don’t remember putting in the kitchen
– A dog-shaped shadow that follows me from room to room
– A head pressed into my lap, forgiving me before I even ask
– Joy. Just joy.
– And a reminder: this is the best decision I ever made on rotation.
