Part 7 – “The Last Carving”
Jasper didn’t get up that morning.
Not when Harold shuffled to the counter.
Not when the heater clicked on with its usual clank.
Not even when the door creaked and the scent of bread from Ellie’s diner drifted in.
He breathed.
But that was all.
No wag. No twitch. No glance.
Harold didn’t panic.
He just sat beside him, as always, and laid a hand on the dog’s chest, feeling the rise and fall like the turning of a page he’d read too many times to forget.
He whispered, “I know.”
Then, slowly, he stood. His joints groaned. His balance swayed — not from dizziness this time, but from the weight of what he had decided.
It was time.
Not to let go.
But to finish something.
The back room hadn’t changed much in ten years.
The same cracked stool. The same pegboard full of worn tools. The same smell of cedar and varnish and peppermint from the tin of candies no one ever took.
Harold selected a block of old walnut.
Dark. Dense. The kind that cut deep and smooth if your hand knew where to go.
He set it on the table. Took out his blade. And began to carve.
It wasn’t fast. Nothing he did was fast anymore. But it was sure.
Each stroke carried memory.
Not just of Jasper. But of the mornings. The winters. The long walks. The time Jasper had barked at the old jukebox until Harold turned on the Patsy Cline tape. The time he’d waited outside the clinic door for three hours because Harold’s sugar had crashed so low he couldn’t stand.
He carved the curve of the spine. The fold of the ears. The eyes, turned slightly left — not straight at you, but just past, the way Jasper always looked, as if he could see something you couldn’t.
It took all day.
Harold forgot to eat.
By late afternoon, his hand cramped. His fingers were spotted with small nicks. A bead of sweat slipped down his temple, and he leaned against the bench to steady himself.
Jasper hadn’t made a sound all day.
Still breathing.
Still here.
But quiet. So very quiet.
Harold took a sip of juice. Popped a glucose tab for safety. Didn’t even try to argue with himself this time.
Then he finished the carving.
He didn’t paint it. Didn’t gloss it. Left the grain raw, like memory. Like truth.
When he was done, he set it on the counter — a perfect miniature Jasper. Lying down, chin on paws, eyes up.
Waiting.
That evening, he unlocked the front door.
Left the CLOSED sign hanging, but pulled it wide so the light spilled out across the sidewalk.
He turned on the radio, low.
Patsy Cline again. “You Belong to Me.”
Then he lay beside Jasper.
This time, not with grief heavy on his chest.
But with a hand on the carved figure beside them both.
“I carved you,” he whispered. “So you’ll stay. Even when you go.”
Jasper’s breathing slowed.
Outside, the wind rattled the leaves.
A few passersby paused, looking through the window. No one came in.
They understood.
This was not a moment for company.
At midnight, Harold whispered one more thing.
Not “goodbye.”
Not “thank you.”
Just: “I love you, boy.”
And Jasper, with the last strength in him, reached his paw forward — not far, just enough to touch the wood carving.
Then rested.
And did not move again.