Part 2
The rug caught against a floorboard. Bishop pulled again, hard enough to move it another few inches, then lowered himself with his back partly turned toward the puppy.
Daniel remained crouched beside Finn’s bed.
“You don’t have to move,” he told the shepherd.
Bishop rested his chin on his paws.
In the kitchen, Daniel prepared two meals and set the bowls well apart. Finn followed him as far as the doorway, then stopped to watch Bishop approach his food. The older dog sniffed, stood over it, and walked away.
Finn stayed where he was.
Daniel tapped the edge of the smaller bowl. “This one’s yours.”
The puppy finally ate a few bites, pausing between them to look toward the hearth.
For the rest of the evening, Daniel tried to attend to the ordinary things. He heated supper, returned messages to the search team, and put the clinic papers beside the telephone. Bishop, who usually followed him from room to room, remained on his rug.
When Daniel went to bed, he left his door open. From the hallway he could see the pale edge of Finn’s blanket and, farther away, Bishop’s ears above the floor.
Rachel arrived the next morning carrying coffee in a cardboard tray. She let herself in after a brief knock and found Daniel rinsing a dish that was already clean.
“How was the first night?”
“Quiet.”
She looked past him. “That covers a lot of possibilities.”
Finn sniffed her shoes before retreating beneath the table. Rachel knelt to check his paw, then coaxed him out far enough to examine his eyes and gums.
“He’s doing better.” She watched him take a cautious drink. “Now let me see your other patient.”
Bishop accepted the stethoscope with a resigned glance at Daniel. Rachel checked his gums and listened again, moving the instrument slightly lower along his chest.
“Any changes in his appetite?”
“He didn’t want supper.”
“Before yesterday?”
Daniel picked up his coffee. “A few meals.”
“How many?”
“I haven’t counted.”
Rachel set the stethoscope around her neck. “Start.”
Daniel looked toward Bishop, who was making his way back to the rug.
“We know his heart needs watching,” she said. “I need more than an impression of how he’s doing. Meals, coughing, breathing when he’s asleep. How difficult it is for him to get up.”
“He’s twelve.”
“I have his birthday in the file.”
Daniel’s mouth tightened, but he fetched a notebook from a kitchen drawer.
Rachel wrote down what she wanted tracked and left a joint supplement beside the bowls. At the door, she turned to find Finn peering around a table leg while Bishop watched from the hearth.
“Don’t arrange a friendship for them,” she said. “Let Bishop decide how close is close enough.”
After she left, Daniel put the notebook where he couldn’t miss it.
Owen’s truck arrived before the coffee had gone cold. He climbed out slowly and stood beside the door until the prosthetic settled beneath him. Gravel shifted under his boot as he approached the steps.
Daniel opened the door.
“You actually came.”
“Don’t make a ceremony out of it.”
“I was thinking a small parade.”
Owen gave him a tired look and stepped inside.
He was leaner than he had been before his injury. His dark hair needed cutting, and he carried his shoulders as if he expected someone to ask whether he was all right. He greeted Bishop first, offering his hand before touching him.
Then Finn came out from under a chair, gripping the red rubber ball between his teeth.
Daniel had found it while cleaning out the corner where he’d put the puppy’s bed. Finn had barely looked at it the night before. Now he carried it toward Bishop, set it down, and waited.
Bishop turned his face toward the window.
The puppy picked up the ball and advanced another step.
“Give him room,” Daniel said.
Finn stopped. After a moment, he turned and deposited the ball against Owen’s boot instead.
Owen stared at it. “I haven’t signed up for anything.”
Finn nudged it.
“Apparently you have,” Daniel said.
Owen lowered himself carefully, one hand braced on the table. He rolled the ball toward the hallway. Finn scrambled after it, overshot on the smooth floor, and returned carrying it so proudly that Owen laughed before he seemed to realize he was going to.
Daniel looked down into his coffee.
The next roll was slower. Finn brought the ball back and rested his chin on Owen’s knee.
“Doesn’t seem to notice what’s missing,” Owen said.
Daniel leaned against the counter. “You’re here. That may cover it.”
Owen’s fingers moved through the puppy’s fur. Near the fireplace, Bishop’s ears turned toward them, though his head stayed on his paws.
Owen remained for dinner. They talked about the search volunteers, a gate at the refuge that never stayed shut, and Finn’s conviction that a folded dish towel was something worth stealing. Neither man mentioned the television Daniel had heard during the call.
At the truck that evening, Owen rested a hand on the open door.
“Might come by again.”
“Ball’ll be here.”
“I meant to see you.”
“Sure.”
Owen shook his head, but there was a little more life in his face when he drove away.
Inside, Bishop had moved his rug again.
Daniel sat beside him for a while before turning out the lights. Finn slept across the room with the ball tucked against his blanket.
By the third morning, the puppy had learned to slow down near the hearth. He would follow Daniel through the house, stop when Bishop raised his head, and wait until the old dog looked away before continuing.
That morning, Daniel set Bishop’s recommended food against the kitchen wall. The shepherd came forward, swallowed one mouthful, and abandoned the rest.
Daniel stood beside the counter. He had written down every meal since Rachel’s visit. Most of the entries were becoming variations of the same two words: ate little.
“Try a bit more.”
Bishop returned to his rug. He lowered his front half, paused, and seemed to search for a position his hind legs could manage.
Finn sat over his own breakfast without touching it.
Daniel knelt beside Bishop and laid a hand along his ribs. The breaths beneath his palm came harder than they should have.
He called Rachel.
She arrived before noon. This time, when she asked questions, Daniel gave her the details he had kept setting aside. The cough after midnight. The shorter walks. The occasions when Bishop stood in the hall as if he had no reason to go either way.
Rachel examined him, reviewed the notebook, and listened for a long time.
Daniel waited by the hearth with Bishop’s everyday collar resting between his fingers.
Rachel put away the stethoscope.
“His heart disease is getting worse, Daniel. Faster than we wanted…”
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