🐾 Part 8 — The Last Mission
Summer had begun to pull back its heat.
The mornings grew gentler, fog clinging to the treetops behind the cabin like old breath. Danny stood on the back porch in his robe, cradling a mug of unsweet tea. He watched Charlie, who lay in the grass near the edge of the yard, head on his paws, tail twitching now and then like a dream still clinging to his bones.
Ethan had gone back to Tallahassee for a short while, promising to return in two weeks with a surprise. He’d packed slowly, hugging Charlie three times before finally stepping into his car.
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Ethan had said.
Charlie had wagged once, low and calm, like he already knew the clock was winding down.
Danny took a sip of his tea and stepped onto the dew-wet grass, barefoot.
He crouched beside the old dog.
“You’re slowing down,” he whispered. “I see it now. You try to hide it, but I remember that limp. You’re still guarding me… even when it’s you who’s hurting.”
Charlie opened one eye, blinked slowly, and closed it again.
Over the next few days, the changes became clearer.
Charlie slept more. He groaned when rising. He no longer chased shadows across the fence line or circled the porch twice before settling in.
But he still followed Danny.
Everywhere.
When Danny stood too fast and got dizzy in the kitchen, Charlie was there before his hand hit the wall.
The blood sugar was dropping again—despite the pills, despite the care.
Danny tested.
61.
He sat down hard on the couch and ate a spoonful of peanut butter, waiting for the fog to lift.
Charlie climbed up beside him, which he hadn’t done in years, and rested his weight against Danny’s chest.
“I’m not ready,” Danny whispered. “Not for this.”
Charlie licked his chin once and closed his eyes.
That night, Danny pulled down a dusty wooden box from the top shelf of the closet. Inside were items he hadn’t touched in over a decade:
- A faded American flag folded into a perfect triangle
- James Lopez’s dog tags
- A photo of the squad, taken three weeks before the blast
- And a worn K9 tactical harness—Charlie’s old vest, still stained with desert sand
Danny laid the vest on the bed.
Charlie walked in, paused at the doorway, and looked at it.
Then at Danny.
Danny’s throat tightened.
“I kept it. Thought I might throw it out once. Couldn’t.”
Charlie walked forward and lay beside it.
As if to say, I remember, too.
The next day, Danny drove into town and stopped at a small woodshop just past the post office.
He sat with a craftsman named Gerald—Vietnam vet, carpenter, part-time preacher—and told him what he needed.
“I want a box,” Danny said. “A simple one. Cedar, maybe. Something dignified. Big enough for a hundred-pound dog.”
Gerald paused.
“For Charlie?”
Danny nodded.
The older man wiped his hands on a rag.
“I can do that. No charge.”
Danny shook his head. “You will. I want it to mean something.”
Gerald met his eyes.
“It already does.”
Two days later, Danny got a call from Ethan.
“I’ve got it. I’m heading back now.”
Danny didn’t ask what it was.
He just said, “Drive safe.”
That evening, Charlie struggled to get up from his bed.
It took him three tries.
Danny helped, bracing the dog’s body gently with his arms.
Charlie leaned against him, panting lightly.
“No more running, huh?”
Charlie looked up at him, one eye cloudier now than the other.
Danny carried him to the porch.
They sat there until the stars came out.
“I always thought I’d die first,” Danny said quietly. “Maybe from the war. Maybe from this sugar curse. But never thought I’d outlive you.”
Charlie let out a long sigh and rested his head on Danny’s bare foot.
That night, in the silence between midnight and dawn, Danny had a dream.
They were back in Iraq—only it wasn’t hot. It was green. Lush. Full of grass and trees. Birds sang.
Danny stood at the edge of a field, unarmed. No vest. No fear.
Charlie sat beside him—young again. Strong. Alert.
“Where are we?” Danny asked.
Charlie barked once and ran ahead.
Danny followed.
He didn’t limp. Didn’t feel tired. Didn’t sweat.
They ran together through the field.
Free.
Danny woke to the sound of a car crunching gravel.
He looked at the clock. 7:42 AM.
Ethan.
He pulled on a sweatshirt and opened the door just as Ethan stepped out, holding something wrapped in a flannel blanket.
Charlie lifted his head weakly.
Danny stepped forward.
Ethan smiled and unfolded the cloth.
Inside was a polished wooden sign, hand-carved. On it were three words burned into the grain:
“Charlie’s Watch Never Ends.”
Danny swallowed hard.
Ethan looked over at the dog.
“We’re gonna hang it right on the porch.”
Charlie wagged his tail.
Once.
Then twice.
And then he closed his eyes again.