📘 PART 4 – “Home Is Where You Wait”
Three days after the attack, Bruno came home.
The vet techs helped carry him out to David’s truck. Bruno had a harness now — soft chest straps that wrapped under his ribcage to keep pressure off the injured leg. His eyes were clearer, but tired. His tail didn’t wag, not yet.
David drove slow.
The road felt longer than usual, every bump making him wince on Bruno’s behalf.
When they pulled into the driveway, David circled around, opened the passenger door, and reached under his dog’s chest.
“All right, pal. We’re home.”
Bruno didn’t resist, didn’t whimper. He let himself be lifted, cradled, and lowered gently onto the ramp David had built.
The dog stood there for a moment — uncertain — sniffing the air.
Then he limped forward, slow but determined, into the house.
David had spent the entire previous night cleaning. He couldn’t erase the bloodstains on the garage floor — not completely — but he scrubbed what he could. He fixed the front door, replaced the lock, set new motion lights outside.
Inside, he laid down rugs so Bruno wouldn’t slip. Replaced the old food bowl with a raised set for easier access. Added a soft wedge pillow next to the bed by the fire.
The moment Bruno saw that spot — the bed, the blanket, the picture frame above it — he exhaled.
And lowered himself down, stiff and slow.
David sat beside him, cross-legged.
“You made it.”
Bruno turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.
He didn’t have to respond. His presence was enough.
The first night back was rough.
Bruno whimpered in his sleep — soft, pained sounds that made David sit upright every time.
Once, near midnight, Bruno tried to stand and couldn’t. He panicked, nails scraping the floor. David rushed to his side, gently laying him back down.
“Easy,” he whispered. “You’re safe. No one’s coming through that door again.”
He stayed there, lying on the rug, hand on the dog’s shoulder until the tremors stopped.
Only when the fire died down did they both drift into a restless sleep.
By morning, the house was filled with small movements.
Bruno shuffled from room to room behind David, just like before — though slower now, with a slight tilt in his walk. The limp was real, but it didn’t stop him from following.
He ate when David sat nearby. Drank when the water was changed fresh and cool. Even managed one tail thump when David brought out the peanut butter jar with his morning pills.
Small victories. Silent ones.
But for David, they were everything.
Later that day, a knock came at the door.
David tensed. So did Bruno.
It was the vet — Dr. Vasquez — holding a small white box.
“Pain meds,” she said. “And a follow-up checkup scheduled for Friday.”
Bruno limped forward and sniffed her hand. She smiled, knelt, and scratched his neck gently.
“He’s doing better than I expected,” she said. “He’s got a stubborn heart.”
David watched the two of them, something pulling inside his chest.
“You think he’ll ever… run again?”
She looked at him — not just the words, but the weight behind them.
“He might not run. But he’ll walk beside you. And that’s all he’s ever wanted to do.”
That night, David took an old T-shirt — one he hadn’t worn since the night of the attack — and folded it into Bruno’s bed.
The dog sniffed it, turned twice, and curled around it with a soft sigh.
David turned off the lights, sat on the couch, and watched the slow rise and fall of Bruno’s ribs.
It struck him then — deep, quiet, humbling:
The house didn’t feel empty anymore.
It felt alive.
Bruised, yes. Limping, yes. But alive.
Continue Reading part 5 – “The Weight That Stayed”