Part 5 – The Final Roll Begins
The days shortened quickly once November settled in. Afternoons dissolved into dusk before Jo had even washed the breakfast mugs. She found herself chasing light, moving Baxter from window to window to catch the softest glow. He tolerated it, lifting his head at her gentle coaxing, as if he understood that the camera mattered as much as the food dish now.
She loaded a new roll of film on Monday morning, fingers clumsy from the ache in her joints. This one felt different. Heavier somehow. It carried the weight of finality. She whispered as she clicked the back of the Nikon shut, “This might be the last one, Bax. Let’s make it count.”
That morning, he refused his food.
She tried everything—his kibble soaked in broth, a spoonful of cottage cheese, even saltine crumbs. He sniffed, licked once, then turned away. His body trembled with the effort of rising, but when she opened the back door, he shuffled outside. The cold air hit them both like a wall.
Jo followed him down the porch steps, Nikon slung across her chest. The yard was quiet except for a crow perched on the telephone line. Baxter sniffed half-heartedly at the leaves, then sank down in the grass. His breath clouded in the chilly air.
Jo raised the camera, heart hammering. She captured his silhouette against the withered garden, the outline of his ribs stark beneath thinning fur. Click. She advanced the film. Another click.
Each frame felt stolen. Each one a tiny rebellion against time.\
That afternoon, Rachel stopped by again. She had become a near-daily presence, carrying casseroles, folding laundry, sitting with Jo in silence.
“How is he today?” she asked, voice already heavy with the answer.
“He won’t eat,” Jo said flatly. She was sitting on the rug, stroking Baxter’s ears. “But he still looks at me. See?”
Rachel crouched, meeting Baxter’s tired gaze. “He does,” she admitted. Then she looked at her aunt. “But Aunt Jo, you’re wearing yourself thin. You’re not sleeping. You’re carrying that camera like it’s a cross.”
Jo’s voice hardened. “It’s not a cross. It’s a promise.”
Rachel touched her shoulder, choosing silence.
That night, Jo set up the enlarger in the basement. She developed the frames from that morning: Baxter’s silhouette, his breath visible, his body frail but dignified. Under the red light, the images bloomed like bruises. She pinned them to the line, watching them drip dry.
She whispered to the air, “These aren’t pretty, are they, boy? But they’re true. And truth is what lasts.”
Her knees ached as she climbed the stairs again. She found Baxter curled near the door, waiting as though to keep watch. She lay beside him, curling her body to match his, pressing her cheek to his side.
“Don’t leave me while I’m sleeping,” she begged. “Give me the mercy of knowing.”
By Wednesday, his steps faltered more. He slipped twice on the kitchen floor. Jo moved rugs across every inch of linoleum, creating a patchwork path so he could walk without sliding. She photographed him as he tested it, each step deliberate, tail flicking faintly with accomplishment.
Later, as she bent to wipe his paws, she whispered, “You’re still teaching me. Even now. How to take small steps and call them victories.”
The shutter clicked again, preserving the lesson.
On Thursday, Dr. Rowe stopped by at Jo’s request. She had called him late at night, panic thick in her throat.
“I don’t think I can tell when it’s time,” she confessed over the phone. “What if I wait too long? What if I end it too soon?”
He arrived with quiet footsteps, carrying his bag but also something softer—a patience that filled the room. He examined Baxter gently, checking his gums, listening to his heart.
Finally, he looked at Jo. “He’s fading. But he’s not in crisis yet. He still knows you. He still wants to be near you. When that changes—when his eyes don’t recognize you—that’s when the time will be clear.”
Jo swallowed hard. “And until then?”
“Love him. Take your pictures. Let him teach you.”
She nodded, though tears blurred her vision.
As Dr. Rowe knelt to give Baxter a scratch under the chin, the dog leaned forward and licked his hand. Jo’s finger moved instinctively, pressing the shutter. The click echoed through the room, sealing another unexpected grace.
That evening, Rachel suggested something daring.
“What if you take him back to the river? Just once more. Even if he can’t swim, just to smell it. You always said that was his happiest place.”
Jo hesitated. The river had been Baxter’s kingdom—summers chasing sticks, rolling in the mud, emerging soaked and wild with joy. But could he handle it now?
She looked at him, head resting heavy on his paws. His tail thumped weakly, as if in answer.
“All right,” Jo whispered. “One last trip.”
Saturday morning, they drove to the French Broad River. Rachel came to help, carrying the blanket, the thermos, the folding chair. Jo lifted Baxter gently from the car, his legs dangling, his body lighter than it had ever been.
The river greeted them with its rushing song. The banks were littered with bare branches, the water carrying the last leaves of autumn downstream. Baxter perked his head, nostrils flaring. For the first time in weeks, his eyes brightened.
Jo spread the blanket near the bank. She sat with him, Nikon resting in her lap. The light shimmered off the water, dappling his fur. She raised the camera. Click. His nose lifted higher. Click. His tail brushed against her ankle.
Rachel stood back, watching silently.
At one point, Baxter leaned forward, dipping his muzzle into the cold water. He didn’t drink, just touched it, as though greeting an old friend. Jo caught it with another click, her breath catching.
“This is it,” she whispered. “This is what I wanted for him. A last perfect moment.”
The drive home was quiet. Baxter slept on the blanket in the backseat, body rising and falling in a shallow rhythm. Jo kept glancing in the mirror, fearing each pause between breaths.
When they arrived home, she carried him inside herself, cradling him like a child. Her arms shook with effort, but her heart swelled with a strange peace. He had seen his river. He had said goodbye in his way.
She laid him on the rug, covering him with the blanket. Then she sank beside him, Nikon in her lap, tears finally spilling unchecked.
That night, as she developed the river photographs, she felt something she hadn’t before: readiness. The prints hung along the line, each one a fragment of farewell—Baxter’s nose lifted to the sky, the shimmer of water reflected in his eyes, the quiet dignity of his final communion with nature.
She touched the drying prints gently. “These might be the last, boy. I don’t know how many more frames you’ve got in you. But I’ll be here. With you. Until the end.”
Sunday dawned gray and heavy. Baxter didn’t rise when she opened the curtains. He stayed curled on the rug, chest rising faintly, eyes barely opening when she stroked his head.
Jo lifted the Nikon, heart pounding. She framed him in the soft light, frail and beloved. The shutter clicked.
And she whispered, “Is this the last picture, Bax? Or is there one more still waiting?”
Part 6 – The Weight of Silence
Sunday evening stretched on with the heaviness of a stone. Jo sat cross-legged on the rug, her back aching, but she refused to move away from Baxter. His breathing was shallow, ribs lifting with the effort of every inhale. She stroked the ridge of his spine, whispering words that blurred into lullabies.
The Nikon rested beside her. She couldn’t bring herself to raise it. Not yet. Each click had begun to feel like a countdown, and she wasn’t ready to face the zero at the end.
When the clock struck midnight, she finally stretched onto the floor, curling herself around him as she had done so many nights before. She fell asleep to the rhythm of his breath, uneven but present, a fragile drumbeat holding the dark at bay.
The next morning, she woke to silence.
Her chest seized until she pressed her palm against his side and felt it rise, faint and slow. Relief swept through her like a tide, but dread followed close behind. She could not go on measuring her life in the space between a dog’s breaths.
She rose stiffly, brewed coffee, and then reached for the phone. Her hand hovered over Dr. Rowe’s number. She didn’t dial. Not yet.
Instead, she lifted the Nikon, wound the film, and clicked the shutter as Baxter blinked at her from the rug, eyes hazy but still finding hers.
Rachel arrived midmorning, scarf looped around her neck, concern etched into every line of her face. She crouched by Baxter, kissing the top of his head.
“He’s weaker,” she murmured.
Jo nodded, unwilling to say it aloud.
Rachel placed a thermos of soup on the counter. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes,” Jo admitted. “I can’t… I can’t be the only one in the room when—” She cut herself off, throat closing.
Rachel sat beside her, hand slipping into her aunt’s. They stayed like that, silent, while Baxter dozed between them.
In the afternoon, Jo carried the camera to the porch. She settled Baxter on a blanket near the door so he could feel the cool breeze. The world smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke, of endings wrapped in beauty.
Through the lens, Jo watched his fur stir in the wind, his ears twitch at the sound of distant children playing. Click. Click. Each frame seemed more fragile than the last, like glass she might shatter with too much pressure.
“Why do you keep taking them?” Rachel asked quietly.
“Because when he’s gone, the silence will be too much. The pictures will be proof he lived here, in this light, with me.”
Rachel nodded, tears in her eyes. “Then keep going.”
That evening, Jo dug through the old cedar chest in her bedroom. She unearthed albums from decades past, yellowing edges filled with faces of strangers who had once been her clients. Brides with trembling smiles, grooms wiping tears, children caught mid-giggle. She leafed through page after page, then closed it and set it aside.
None of them mattered compared to the paw resting against her ankle.
She returned to the living room, where Baxter lay curled. She lifted the Nikon again, took another frame, and whispered, “Yours will be the only album that matters.”
That night, Baxter refused the peanut-butter-wrapped pill. He turned his head away, eyes dull. Jo tried again, voice trembling, but he kept his muzzle pressed to the blanket.
Her heart cracked. “You’ve always been stubborn,” she said, voice breaking into a laugh that dissolved into sobs.
Rachel, who had stayed the night, rubbed her back. “Maybe this is his way of saying he’s ready.”
Jo shook her head violently. “No. Not yet.”
She lifted the camera, capturing the moment—his head bowed, her hand offering what he refused. It was not a picture she wanted, but it was one she needed. Truth demanded witness, even when it cut.
The next morning, Jo called Dr. Rowe. Her voice shook. “Can you come today? Just to check him.”
He arrived in the afternoon. His presence filled the room with quiet gravity. He knelt by Baxter, examined him with gentle hands, and then sat back on his heels.
“His body is tired, Jo. He’s not in pain right now, but he’s close to the end.”
Jo gripped the Nikon strap until her knuckles ached. “How close?”
“Maybe days. Maybe hours. You’ll know when his eyes stop finding you. That’s when he’s ready to rest.”
She swallowed hard. “And until then?”
“Until then,” he said softly, “love him the way you have been. Be there. Let him go with you by his side.”
After he left, Jo returned to the darkroom. She developed the frames from the porch: Baxter’s fur ruffled by wind, his eyes half-closed in the weak sunlight. She pinned them along the line, tears blurring the images.
She whispered, “You’ve carried me longer than I’ve carried you, boy. I see it now. These pictures aren’t saving you—they’re saving me.”
That night, Jo sat up with him. The Nikon lay heavy in her lap, but she hesitated to use it. Every click sounded like a nail hammered into a coffin.
Baxter shifted, resting his head on her thigh. She stroked him gently, murmuring stories of his puppy days—how he had chewed through the table leg, how he once leapt into the river chasing a goose. Her voice cracked, but he wagged his tail faintly, as if remembering too.
When his eyes lifted to hers with that same old devotion, Jo pressed the shutter.
Click.
The sound seemed final, echoing into the silence. She lowered the camera and pressed her lips to his head.
At dawn, she carried him outside wrapped in the blanket. The yard glistened with dew. Birds flitted in the branches, their songs sharp against the stillness. She laid him in the grass, sitting beside him.
He sniffed the air once, deeply, as if memorizing it.
She raised the Nikon. Click. His nose lifted. Click. His eyes closed briefly, then opened again, finding her.
Jo lowered the camera, tears spilling. “Not yet, Bax. Please—not yet.”
But she knew. She could feel the weight of silence closing in, the way time thinned around them. The last frame was coming.
And she had no idea how to face it.