Part 7 – The Long Goodbye
Morning broke sharp and clear, the snow glazed with ice that crackled underfoot. Howard’s breath hung in the kitchen as he filled Patch’s bowl with warm broth. The dog nosed at it politely, licked twice, then turned away.
Howard sank to his knees beside him. “Not hungry?” he whispered, though he knew the answer. Patch leaned against his leg, eyes tired but kind, as if apologizing for disappointing him.
Howard’s chest clenched. It was beginning.
The day moved slow. He carried Patch onto the porch so he could watch the chickadees flicker at the feeder. The dog’s ears twitched at their song, tail giving one half-hearted wag.
Neighbors passed and called greetings. Howard waved but didn’t rise. His world had narrowed to the small patch of porch, the quilt, the faint rhythm of Patch’s breath.
By afternoon, the phone rang again. It was Dr. Ramirez.
“How’s he doing today?”
Howard swallowed. “He’s… fading. Wouldn’t eat.”
Silence hummed on the line. Then her voice, soft. “I can come tonight, if you’d like me to check him. Or… if you want to talk about the other thing.”
Howard looked down at the Beagle curled at his feet. “Not yet,” he said quickly, then slower: “Not yet.”
“All right. Call me anytime. Even if it’s two in the morning.”
The evening fire burned low. Howard sat in his armchair, Patch tucked against him beneath the quilt. He stroked the dog’s ears, listening to the crackle of logs.
He thought of Evelyn—how she had smiled even when pain had stolen her breath. “Don’t be afraid, Howie,” she’d whispered on her last night. “We just walk each other home.”
Now those words came back like a tolling bell.
As the hours slipped by, Patch grew restless. He shifted, whined softly, then settled again. Howard bent low, pressing his forehead to the dog’s. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”
The broken stethoscope gleamed on the mantel, catching firelight. Howard felt an urge to lift it, to place it against Patch’s ribs. He did, though it told him nothing. Still, he imagined the fading thump within. It was not a doctor’s reading anymore, but a friend’s farewell.
At midnight, a knock came at the door. Surprised, Howard rose, cradling Patch in his arms. When he opened it, he found Marcy—the young woman whose cat he had sat with—standing with a thermos.
“I brought soup,” she said, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Thought maybe you hadn’t eaten.”
Howard blinked at her kindness. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” she said. “But you came for me. Let me come for you.”
She stepped inside, setting the thermos on the table. Her eyes fell to Patch, and her expression softened. “He looks loved,” she whispered.
Howard’s throat thickened. “That he is.”
They sat at the table, sipping soup in silence while Patch slept nearby. It felt almost like family—two souls holding vigil over another.
Marcy reached across, touching Howard’s trembling hand. “When Grandma passed, you told us grief was just love with nowhere to go. You were right. But tonight, I think grief is also sitting in a warm kitchen, watching someone you love breathe, and knowing it matters.”
Howard closed his eyes. He had forgotten he’d said those words. Perhaps because he hadn’t believed them until now.
After she left, Howard carried Patch back to the armchair. The dog’s body was lighter, frailer, but the warmth against his chest was still there. He whispered, “You don’t have to stay for me, boy. Not if it’s too hard. I’ll walk you home when you’re ready.”
Patch sighed, eyelids heavy.
Howard leaned back, lantern still glowing in the window, fire crackling low. He felt Evelyn’s presence close, like a hand on his shoulder.
Sometime before dawn, he dreamed. He was walking River Road again, lantern swinging at his side. Patch trotted ahead, ears flying. Evelyn walked behind him, calling softly: “Almost home, Howie. Almost home.”
When he woke, Patch was still there, pressed against him. But the Beagle’s breaths were shallow, spaced far apart, each one a prayer.
Howard bent low, whispering through tears. “I’ll call Dr. Ramirez in the morning. But tonight—tonight you’re still mine.”
He pressed a kiss to Patch’s head, the way Evelyn once kissed him after long shifts, and let the night hold them both in silence.
Part 8 – The Last House Call
The morning came with a brittle stillness, as if even the sparrows outside the window understood. Howard rose stiffly, blinking at the weak light, and for a moment he thought Patch had slipped away in the night.
But then—there it was. A breath. Shallow, fragile, but there.
“Still with me,” Howard whispered, stroking the Beagle’s ears. The fur felt thinner now, the skin beneath loose and delicate. Patch blinked once, tail tapping faintly against the quilt.
Howard’s chest tightened. The time was closer than ever.
He warmed broth, tried coaxing Patch to sip. The dog licked once, turned his head away, then leaned back into Howard’s palm as if to say, That’s enough.
Howard sat on the floor, bowl untouched beside them, the fire crackling low. He stared at the broken stethoscope on the mantel. All those years he had carried it, the tool that let him hear life’s hidden drum. Now it was silent, and he was the one waiting, not the one saving.
By noon, Patch could no longer rise on his own. Howard carried him to the porch so he could smell the pine air. The lantern still burned faintly in the window, though the day was bright.
Neighbors passed. They waved, but their faces shifted when they saw the quilted bundle in Howard’s arms. A boy tugged at his mother’s sleeve and asked, “Is the dog sick?” The woman shushed him, but Howard called gently, “Yes, son. He’s sick. But he’s loved.”
The boy nodded, solemn in the way only children can be. “That helps,” he said simply, and walked on.
Howard’s heart ached with the truth of it. Yes—it helped
That evening, he dialed Dr. Ramirez’s number with trembling fingers. She answered on the first ring.
“It’s time,” Howard said. His voice broke on the word.
There was no hesitation on her end. “I’ll come now.”
The house was dim when she arrived, her car headlights sweeping across the snow. She stepped inside with her black bag and the quiet strength that Howard remembered in himself, once upon a time.
Candace followed carrying supplies. She gave Howard a hug, brief but steady, then knelt to scratch Patch’s ears. “Hi, sweet boy,” she whispered.
Howard carried Patch to the armchair, laying him gently in the crook of his lap. The quilt wrapped around them both. He stroked Patch’s head as Dr. Ramirez crouched beside them.
“Howard,” she said softly, “we’ll go as slow as you need. Do you want me to explain?”
“No,” he whispered. “I’ve said those words myself too many times. Just… let me hold him.”
She nodded, her hand resting on Patch’s back, her eyes meeting Howard’s. Candace stood nearby, silent, as if the room were church.
Howard pressed his forehead to Patch’s. “Thank you, boy. For finding me when I was lost. For walking me home.”
The syringe gleamed faintly in Dr. Ramirez’s hand. She moved with reverence, not haste. “He won’t feel pain,” she murmured.
Howard’s tears fell freely now, soaking the dog’s fur. “Go on,” he whispered.
The injection was quick, gentle.
Patch sighed once, his body relaxing deeper against Howard’s chest. His tail tapped a final time, the softest rhythm. Howard cradled him, listening with every fiber of his being, hoping for one more breath.
But the stillness came, as it always does.
The room was silent except for the fire’s low crackle. Dr. Ramirez placed a hand on Howard’s shoulder, then withdrew, giving him space. Candace set a box of tissues on the table and quietly left the room.
Howard bent low, kissing Patch’s head. “Safe now,” he whispered. “No more pain.”
The broken stethoscope on the mantel caught the firelight. For the first time in years, Howard didn’t resent its silence. It no longer needed to hear heartbeats; it only needed to remind him that he had been there, listening, all along.
When Dr. Ramirez returned, her eyes were damp. “Would you like me to take him, or…?”
Howard shook his head fiercely. “No. He stays here tonight. With me.”
She nodded. “That’s the right call.” She squeezed his hand, then left quietly.
Howard sat for hours in the chair, Patch in his lap, the quilt wrapped around them. The lantern in the window glowed steady, as if keeping vigil. Outside, snow drifted down, soft as ash.
Near midnight, he whispered into the silence, “Evelyn, I walked him home. Just like you asked.”
And for a moment, in the wavering lamplight, he felt her there—her hand on his shoulder, her voice a balm. You weren’t alone, Howie. Neither was he.
Howard bowed his head, grief flooding him, but gratitude laced through it, too.