Now the television stays off, and nobody complains.
The hardest part is dinner.
Margaret and I used to argue about whether the evening news belonged on during meals. She wanted conversation. I wanted the weather report.
Now the television stays off, and nobody complains.
Some evenings, I sit beneath our family photographs, tracing Margaret’s face in our wedding picture.
Every morning, I pick up our wedding photograph and kiss her smiling face. At night, I do it again.
“Dad, have you thought about moving closer to us?”
“You should be here,” I tell her.
One Sunday, our son, David, called.
“Dad, have you thought about moving closer to us?”
“And leave your mother’s roses?”
“We could plant roses here.”
“They wouldn’t be hers.”
Afterward, I wandered the empty house. By Tuesday, I’d made my decision.
He went quiet.
“I worry about you.”
“I know, son.”
Afterward, I wandered the empty house. By Tuesday, I’d made my decision.
I drove to the county animal shelter.
A young volunteer named Hannah met me at the desk.
She led me past kennels filled with barking.
“Looking for a puppy?” she asked.
“Something with a little less energy than a puppy.”
She smiled. “We have a few seniors.”
She led me past kennels filled with barking. Dogs jumped against gates, desperate to be noticed. At the far end, a small brown dachshund was curled on a blanket.
“Who’s this?”
There was a pale scar across one ear.
“Rosie. She’s about twelve, maybe thirteen. She’s blind in her left eye, has arthritis, and she’s going gray around the muzzle.”
Rosie lifted her head when I said her name.
There was a pale scar across one ear.
“Does anyone ask about her?”
“Sometimes. They usually choose younger dogs.”
I sat on the floor beside her kennel.
Rosie approached slowly, sniffed my hand, and rested her chin on it.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
Rosie approached slowly, sniffed my hand, and rested her chin on it.
Something in my chest loosened.
“Looks like we both need somebody.”
Hannah explained that Rosie had been surrendered several months earlier by an owner who could no longer care for her.
She handed me the adoption paperwork.
I was worried Rosie might not like my quiet house.
“She’s ready to go home.”
I was worried Rosie might not like my quiet house.
I needn’t have been.
Within two days, she’d claimed my chair. Each morning, she brought one slipper and waited while I found the other.
At first, I thought it was an accident.
On Thursday, she brought both.
At night, she slept by my bed, snoring softly all through the night.
“Well, Margaret,” I said toward the photograph, “we’ve got a clever one.”
By day, she slept beside my chair and still obeyed “stay” and “come,” though slowly.
At night, she slept by my bed, snoring softly all through the night.
It helped more than I expected.
We took short park walks, pausing for her aching joints. Soon the coffee seller near the pond recognized us.
“You’re here early, Mr. Ellis,” he’d say.
Rosie hated the sweater.
“Rosie sets the schedule.”
My family noticed. Lucy wanted pictures, David asked about Rosie’s appetite, and Caroline mailed her a sweater covered in yellow ducks.
Rosie hated the sweater.
I sent Caroline a photo anyway.
I kept furniture in place for Rosie and hid her arthritis medication in cheese, as the veterinarian suggested.
I laughed so suddenly that I startled myself.
One rainy afternoon she refused to go outside. I sat on the floor beside her and told her about Margaret’s habit of singing while washing dishes.
“She couldn’t carry a tune, Rosie. Not one.”
Rosie licked my hand.
I laughed so suddenly that I startled myself.
