Part 7
Daisy reached the fence before Boone came to the first turn.
At sixteen, he needed several attempts to straighten his hind legs. His cream coat had thinned, and gray covered most of his face. The damp air had washed familiar scents from the path, while the mist softened the gates and fence posts into uncertain shapes.
Daisy moved along her side of the double barrier.
Boone heard her hooves and continued.
Ben sat on a bench overlooking the lane. Nora remained standing with one hand on its back.
“They don’t think he’ll manage another winter,” she said.
Ben nodded.
Years earlier, he might have answered with a plan before the sentence finished. Now he let it remain what it was.
Boone reached the shallow incline beside the junipers. His back foot slipped, and he stopped.
Daisy stopped too.
He recovered and continued until the path curved away from the shelter. Daisy moved ahead too quickly. Her hoofbeats faded, and Boone stood with his head lowered, unable to locate the turn.
Daisy continued several yards before noticing his absence.
She came back.
Near the fence, she struck one hoof lightly against the packed earth.
Boone lifted his head.
She tapped again and waited.
The dog found the textured boundary beneath his paw. Daisy turned, and they continued at his pace, divided by two fences and a narrow band of wet sage.
At the last gate, Boone lowered himself onto the heated pad beneath his shelter roof. Nora walked close enough for him to smell her through the fence but did not ask him to rise.
His tail moved once against the ground.
Daisy remained outside the giraffe barn. The herd had already begun its slow walk toward the evening feeding station, but she stayed beside Boone.
His brass tag rested quietly against the collar. His breathing deepened.
Daisy waited until he was asleep.
Then she turned toward the hoofbeats beyond the junipers and walked back to her herd.