📘 PART 7 – “Steps Worth Taking”
The vet’s office had become a kind of second home.
Not by choice, but by rhythm. Every Tuesday and Friday, David loaded Bruno into the truck using a sling and a short ramp. The rides were slow. Quiet. But not unpleasant. Bruno’s head rested on the seat, sometimes nudging David’s elbow at red lights — as if to say, I’m still here. Don’t worry so much.
Dr. Vasquez always greeted them with a soft voice and a clipboard.
They’d begun physical therapy — gently at first. Bruno hated the underwater treadmill, but tolerated it for liver treats. He limped through stretching exercises with grim patience, a veteran accepting the drill.
David never left his side.
“His progress is steady,” Dr. Vasquez told him after the third week. “Scar tissue’s forming well. The joint’s more stable than I’d hoped.”
David nodded. “Will he ever run again?”
The vet sighed, thoughtful. “Maybe not full speed. But he might chase a bird across a yard someday.”
“That’s enough,” David said. “That’s more than enough.”
At home, the recovery schedule was sacred.
Morning meds crushed into canned chicken. Ten minutes of slow walking in the yard. Brushing. Rest. Short leash time in the evening. And always — always — the quiet hour by the fire before bed.
Bruno had begun standing on his own again.
The limp was there, but less pronounced. His balance steadier. One afternoon, David came in from the garage and found him halfway up the hall, tail wagging, eyes alert. No coaxing. No prompting.
It was the first time David had smiled without guilt in months.
The house had changed, too.
It no longer felt like a place for waiting or forgetting. It smelled of chicken broth and clean laundry. The windows were kept open now, just a crack, to let in the wind. Bruno watched birds through the front window, tail flicking in rhythm with their movements.
David talked more — to the dog, mostly. Short things. Observations. Half-thoughts.
“You used to stare out that same window like you were waiting on someone,” he said once. “Now I think you’re just enjoying the view.”
Bruno tilted his head, then laid it back down. Satisfied.
The vet bills were stacking up.
David had sold a few old tools. Fixed a neighbor’s fence. Told himself he’d pick up a few shifts at the auto parts store once Bruno was strong enough to stay home alone.
But every receipt, every line item — joint injections, laser therapy, bloodwork — felt worth it.
Because each one came with something money couldn’t buy:
A full breath. A solid step. A wag of the tail.
He kept them all in a shoebox by the fridge.
Not for the IRS. Not for reimbursement.
For remembrance.
One evening, as they returned from therapy, David noticed something different.
Bruno stood at the foot of the ramp. Looked up at the porch.
Then, slow but determined, he climbed it — unassisted.
Three careful steps. A pause. One more. Then he turned and looked back as if to say, Did you see that?
David stood on the gravel, keys in hand, stunned.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I saw it.”
He followed the dog inside, heart thudding like he’d just watched someone take their first steps.
Because in a way… he had.
Later that night, David sat at the kitchen table and pulled out the old envelope again — the photo of the soldier with Bruno, then called Shadow.
He looked at it for a long time. Then at the dog now curled up by the fire.
Names were just names.
What mattered was who stayed.
Who stood back up.
Who healed.
And Bruno — whatever he’d once been called — was here now. Still choosing David. Still walking, still trying.
Step by step.
Scar by scar.
Continue Reading part 8 – “The Letter With No Return Address”