Part 3
Owen nodded before Russell could argue again.
The detour was short. Bernard was conscious, wrapped, and stable, and the rocks lay close to the route out. Russell agreed with a look that promised he would have something to say about it later.
At the sheltered pocket, Tess lifted her head from the cap. When Owen brought Bernard close enough, she pushed herself forward and pressed her muzzle into his hand. He held it against his cheek while the puppies wriggled in their carrier.
Then Owen gathered the dogs, and the rescuers took Bernard out to the waiting vehicle.
At the clinic, a nurse cut through the old man’s plans more efficiently than anyone had cut through the fallen tree.
“You’re not going back to a cold house tonight.”
Bernard sat on the examination table with his wrapped ankle sticking out beneath a blanket. The assessment had brought good news: a bad sprain, no fracture, no indication of a tear requiring surgery. He needed fluids, warmth, rest, and follow-up care.
“I didn’t say tonight,” he told her.
“You were getting around to it.”
Owen studied a poster on the wall until his face was under control.
Russell had checked the property while another crew worked near the access road. A heavy limb had brought down the line behind Bernard’s house. The house itself was sound, but there was no power, and the damaged dog shelter couldn’t be used.
The warming shelter in town accepted people, not pets other than service animals. The veterinary office had kennels available.
Bernard rejected that option before Owen finished repeating it.
Owen stood with his keys in his hand, feeling the absence of any sensible alternative.
“I have a sofa,” he said.
Bernard looked at him.
“And heat. Bring the dogs.”
By evening, Owen could hear someone breathing from almost anywhere in his living room.
Bernard occupied the sofa with his ankle raised on folded blankets. Tess lay beneath his dangling hand. The puppies slept in a broad, shallow firewood basket lined with towels and the cleanest of the old wool blankets.
Owen moved the basket away from the hearth, decided that was too far, and shifted it halfway back.
Two men, one grown dog, three puppies.
He had to start the count again to remember to include himself.
The smallest puppy woke first. Owen was carrying an empty soup bowl to the kitchen when the little animal heaved himself over the basket rim and tumbled onto the rug.
He stood with his feet spread, apparently considering what had happened. Then he waddled toward Owen’s chair.
Owen put down the bowl, picked him up, and returned him to his family.
“Stay with your mother.”
Several minutes later, something warm settled over the toe of Owen’s boot.
He looked down. The puppy’s front paws were much too large for the rest of him. One ear folded against his head, and his dark little muzzle rested on Owen’s laces.
Bernard watched from the sofa.
“That one’s made an appointment with you.”
“He missed the basket.”
“By twelve feet?”
Owen lifted the puppy. It yawned into the cup of his hand.
“He’s attracted to warmth.”
“So am I,” Bernard said. “Doesn’t mean I’d sleep on every fellow’s shoe.”
The laugh escaped Owen before he could make it into a breath. He looked toward the fire and returned the puppy to the basket.
Bernard closed his eyes, leaving the sound alone.
The roads remained unreliable for three days. Snow tapered, started again, and drifted across places the plow had just cleared. The house filled with drying gloves, dog towels, and the smell of reheated coffee.
On the second morning, Owen came out of the mudroom and found Bernard standing at a kitchen cupboard with a screwdriver.
His cane leaned against the counter. Most of his weight was on his good leg, though not as much as he appeared to believe.
Owen took the tool.
Bernard pointed at the cupboard door. “Before you start lecturing, look.”
The door hung low on one side.
“I can see it.”
“Apparently not until now.”
“Sit down.”
“Fix the top hinge first.”
Owen looked over his shoulder.
Bernard lowered himself into a chair, but he continued to supervise. When Owen loosened one screw, the old man made a small disapproving noise.
“You could let me finish.”
“I’m trying to make sure you do.”
Owen turned back to the cabinet before Bernard could see his mouth twitch.
It would have been easier if the man had been helpless. Bernard’s hands knew where everything belonged. He could judge a crooked door from across the room and explain precisely why a chair joint would fail.
Yet he sometimes steadied a mug with both hands. His uninjured leg hesitated when he stood. Each correction was made quickly, before anyone was supposed to notice.
Owen recognized the practice, if not the particular weakness being hidden.
On the third afternoon, Bernard asked for the leather pouch beside the sofa.
Owen handed it over. Two prescription bottles came out. One rattled; the other didn’t.
Bernard gave the empty bottle a shake, then put it away.
“When can that be refilled?” Owen asked.
“It has been.”
“Where is it?”
“At the pharmacy.”
Owen leaned against the kitchen doorway. “And it’s been there how long?”
Bernard’s shoulders drew back. “The roads will open.”
“You ran out yesterday.”
“I noticed.”
“It’s blood pressure medicine, Bernard.”
“And I’m the one taking it.”
The pharmacy was a long drive from the house and didn’t deliver that far out. Bernard said he could drive. Owen pointed toward the snow beyond the window.
“I wasn’t going today,” Bernard said.
“You could’ve asked somebody before it got to this.”
The old man carefully closed the pouch.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“I had a bad day. Now I need permission to handle an ordinary one.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You haven’t said it yet.”
Owen folded his arms. Tess opened her eyes beside the sofa but didn’t lift her head.
Bernard rested the pouch in his lap.
“First somebody collects a prescription. Then they need a key. Sensible precaution, isn’t it? Then my basement stairs become a concern. Night driving. Any driving. Before long, I’m being told a house I’ve lived in for thirty years is suddenly the wrong place for me.”
Owen started to speak.
Bernard held up one finger.
“Let me finish.”
Owen stayed where he was.
“They’ll all mean well. That won’t put my keys back in my hand.” Bernard rubbed the worn leather with his thumb. “I haven’t forgotten how old I am. I’d appreciate not being introduced to the number every morning.”
The fire settled with a soft crack.
Owen went into the kitchen. He reached for the coffeepot because it was there, because his hands wanted a task, because he didn’t trust what he might say next.
His fingers closed around the handle.
Ruth had held a pot like this one during the last part of her illness. She had wanted to pour her own coffee. He remembered seeing the tremor in her wrist and crossing the kitchen before she could lift it.
He had taken the handle from her.
“Let me do that.”
“I can pour coffee, Owen.”
“You might spill it.”
“Then I’ll wipe it up.”
He had kept hold of the pot. She had looked at his hand and then at him, tired and irritated, with a firmness he had disliked because he couldn’t make it go away.
“Am I getting help, or losing my say?”
To read the rest of the story – CLICK the NEXT button 👇👇👇