Part 6
Owen put the wrench on the tailgate.
The new brace was close in color to the old wood, fitted neatly enough that he had to bend to see the joint. Bernard had not tried to make it disappear entirely.
Nor had he touched the top.
There was the pale ring near one corner. The shallow scratches. A dark spot from the candle Ruth had set down during a power failure one Christmas Eve. They had eaten supper in candlelight for six hours, though she had spent part of it worrying about the table.
Owen ran two fingers over the ring.
“I left the finish,” Bernard said. “Unless you wanted it stripped.”
“No.”
Bernard waited while Owen touched the new brace.
“You could have made it look newer.”
“Wasn’t a new table.”
That evening, Owen carried it out of the garage. He had to turn sideways through the mudroom doorway, the same way he and Ruth had done when they first brought it home.
He set it beside the living room window.
For a while, he stood with one hand still beneath the edge. Then he went to the kitchen, made coffee, and brought the mug back. He placed it in the old water ring and sat down beside it.
By the time the puppies were ready for homes, afternoon meltwater had begun dripping from Bernard’s eaves. The fields remained white, but the snow beside the south wall sank a little farther each day.
Inside, the puppies seemed to occupy more floor than three animals reasonably should. One climbed. One chewed. The smallest turned up beside Owen’s boots so reliably that Owen had stopped stepping backward without looking.
Lydia arrived with records, a tablet, and a folder thick enough to make Bernard suspicious.
“You’ve been describing them to callers as if they were well-made dressers,” she told him.
“I know what I’m talking about with a dresser.”
“Then let me handle the questions about people.”
“I have questions.”
“I counted on it.”
Owen found reasons to work outside during several early conversations. He checked the woodpile and tightened a latch that didn’t need tightening. Whenever he came back in, one puppy or another ran to meet him.
Dorothy arrived for her interview without soup.
Bernard looked behind her.
“This is an official visit,” she told him, taking off her coat.
“People can eat during official business.”
Lydia pointed to a chair before he could pursue it.
Dorothy had owned three German shepherds over roughly eighteen years. Jasper, the most recent, had developed degenerative myelopathy. She described managing his needs until his quality of life declined, then stopped speaking while Lydia made a note.
The questions moved on. A six-foot fence. Walks twice daily unless the road was iced. Money reserved for veterinary care. Plans for training, visitors, travel, and exercise. What she would do about hip trouble. Who would take over if she became ill.
Bernard waited for a pause.
“Ask where she keeps her socks.”
Dorothy looked at him. “You’ve been saving that.”
“It appears relevant.”
Lydia glanced up from the tablet. “Locked storage for laundry. I’ll put it under household hazards.”
Owen turned toward the window.
By the time Lydia asked another question about contingency care, Dorothy put her hands on the table.
“Bernard, I can walk here in eight minutes. You realize that?”
“I do.”
“And you still require all this?”
“Eight minutes is close enough to check your work.”
Dorothy stared at him, then laughed.
The female puppy nearest her struggled out from beneath the chair and caught a shoelace between her teeth. Dorothy bent and worked it free with practiced fingers.
Bernard watched the little dog climb against her ankle.
“She’s not a careful judge.”
“Neither was I,” Dorothy said. “I agreed to let you inspect my fence.”
Lydia approved the placement three days later. Dorothy let the puppy settle before choosing a new name. When Bernard heard that, he nodded and asked when she expected to bring her over again.
The second family came from a rural place fourteen miles west of town.
Arthur and Louise Pritchard were both in their mid-sixties. He was tall and spare, with a weathered face and a habit of tracing the handle of his mug with one thumb. She wore her silver hair braided over one shoulder and answered questions without rushing to fill the pauses afterward.
They had shared their home with two large dogs over thirty years. Their last had died the previous spring.
“We waited until we were sure we wanted another dog,” Louise said, “not just the last one back.”
Lydia set her pen down for a moment. Bernard looked at Arthur.
“Do you walk much?”
“Four or five miles most mornings. Weather permitting.”
Louise lifted her mug. “I do three. After that, he starts calling steep hills pleasant.”
“They can be.”
“Then you enjoy them for both of us.”
Bernard gave her the small, approving look Owen had learned to recognize.
Lydia examined photographs of their fenced acreage, checked their veterinary reference, and spent most of an hour discussing training. The darker male puppy chewed a lace beneath Arthur’s chair, then fell asleep with his chin on Louise’s shoe.
He went home with them the following week.
Bernard stood in the drive while Arthur secured the travel crate. Louise came back and hugged him. His hands stayed in his pockets for a second before one rose awkwardly to her shoulder.
Tess watched from the porch. When the vehicle turned out of the drive, she gave a low whine.
Bernard crouched beside her.
“They’ll look after him.”
She kept watching until the truck disappeared. Then she turned toward the house.
Owen followed Bernard inside. Neither man said much while the coffee brewed.
Lydia had two possible households for the remaining puppy. Both seemed suitable. Bernard said he would consider either. Owen agreed with unnecessary emphasis.
“No dog for me.”
Bernard nodded.
Owen said it while filling Tess’s water bowl. He said it after picking up a ruined rope toy and replacing it with another. Once, he said it with the puppy asleep across his left boot.
That time Bernard merely turned a page in his hardware catalog.
One Tuesday, a jackknifed delivery truck forced Owen onto a long detour. He reached Bernard’s house twenty-five minutes later than usual.
The puppy sat behind the glass storm door.
He wasn’t barking or pawing. He sat with his ears uneven and his head high, watching the drive.
When Owen stepped out, the little dog stood. His tail began moving.
Bernard opened the door, and the puppy rushed past his leg to plant both front paws against Owen’s shin. Owen caught him before he slid backward on the packed snow.
“He’s been there awhile,” Bernard said.
Owen rubbed the puppy’s head. “He heard the truck.”
“He was there before the truck.”
“He doesn’t know what time it is.”
“No. But he knows which morning you come.”
The left ear folded under Owen’s palm. He smoothed it back and stayed crouched a little longer than he meant to.
A few days later, he came home with groceries and began putting them away. Milk in the refrigerator. Bread on the counter. Coffee in the cupboard.
Beside the mudroom door stood a stainless steel bowl.
He stopped with the coffee in his hand.
He had bought that bowl the previous afternoon. There was a folded towel beside it, ready for wet feet.
Owen opened the pantry. A bag of puppy food occupied the lower shelf.
He closed the door and looked back at the bowl.
The phone rang the next morning while he was standing at the kitchen counter.
Lydia had found another promising couple, over in Selven. A retired teacher and her husband, previous shepherd experience, fenced property, good veterinary references.
Owen listened without interrupting.
“They sound prepared,” he said.
“They do. The next step would be a home visit.”
He looked through the doorway toward the living room. His mug sat on the walnut table beside the window. Beyond it, meltwater shone along the edge of the yard.
Lydia waited.
Owen’s gaze came back to the empty bowl by the door.
“Don’t arrange that visit…”
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