📘 PART 10 – “Where the Light Touches the Floor”
Bruno’s last spring came slowly.
The wind softened. The birds returned. Snowmelt filled the yard in rivulets that glistened in the morning sun.
David woke each day a little earlier than before, just to sit beside the dog bed and listen to Bruno breathe. The rhythm was slower now, sometimes uneven. But it was there. Steady as a tide coming home.
Some days were good.
Bruno would rise without help, nudge David’s knee with that heavy head, wait patiently by the back door. They’d step onto the porch, move to the top of the ramp, and sit side by side as the sun rose over the neighborhood.
Some days were not.
He’d refuse food. Shiver without wind. Whimper when the joint swelled despite the medicine. On those days, David would warm a towel in the dryer and wrap Bruno up beside the fire, reading aloud from the paper, or just letting the silence stretch between them like an old song they both still remembered.
The vet came for house calls now.
Dr. Vasquez never brought a clipboard. Just a stethoscope, gentle hands, and a softness in her voice that said more than any chart could.
“He knows it’s time,” she said quietly one afternoon. “But he’s not in pain today. He’s waiting for you.”
David sat back on the floor. Stared into Bruno’s eyes.
“I’ve been waiting for you, too.”
That night, David made a final meal. Chicken, sweet potato, bone broth warmed just right. He placed the bowl down gently, and Bruno — tired as he was — licked it clean.
Then he crawled to his bed by the fire and curled in on himself, one paw folded under the other, head resting on his old T-shirt.
David lay down beside him, the way he had that first night after the attack. The house was warm. The world outside was still.
He whispered:
“You can go, buddy. I’ve got it from here.”
And Bruno, with one long exhale — full of memory, gratitude, and peace — closed his eyes.
They buried him beneath the cottonwood tree behind the garage.
David built the marker himself: hand-carved, weather-treated oak, smooth and simple.
“BRUNO — who came when I called, and stayed when I couldn’t.”
Neighbors came. Even the woman from the shelter, who’d left no name. She stood back, tears in her eyes, holding a photo of a soldier beside a younger version of the same dog now at rest.
They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.
Some grief is best honored in silence.
Weeks passed.
David still walked each morning. Still opened the door and let the wind greet him.
He kept the ramp. Not because he needed it. But because he liked to think Bruno would’ve wanted it there — just in case another old soul ever needed the help.
He left the water bowl, too.
Not full. Just clean. Waiting.
One evening, just before dusk, David found himself sitting on the back steps again, hands in his lap, eyes toward the tree.
The cottonwood leaves rustled. The air was warm. And for a moment — just a moment — he could’ve sworn he heard claws on the old porch planks, a familiar breath, the shift of weight settling beside him.
He didn’t turn.
He just smiled.
Because when a soul has walked beside yours that long,
you never really have to look to know they’re there.
Not anymore.