PART 7: SHADOW AND MARGARET
Forest Hill, Mississippi – October 26, 2023
Margaret Caldwell moved slower now.
Her knees ached more with the weather turning. The porch creaked louder beneath her weight. But every Thursday, she made a pot of cinnamon tea, set out two cups — one chipped, one cracked — and waited for the old Tahoe to pull up.
It did, like clockwork.
At 3:00 PM, Rick Anderson would park beneath the shade of her tulip tree. Sam would hop out first. Rosie in Carolyn’s arms. And Shadow — Buddy — bounding out last, tail low but wagging.
Every Thursday, like a promise.
It wasn’t goodbye anymore.
It was something better.
Margaret didn’t pretend Buddy was still her dog.
She knew.
He didn’t sleep at her feet like before. He didn’t curl beside the radiator in the back room like he used to in winter.
But he still leaned into her lap.
Still pressed his nose into the inside of her wrist, where her pulse beat slow and tired.
Still knew her scent.
That was enough.
On this Thursday, she’d baked spice cookies from an old recipe Harold once scribbled on the back of a church bulletin.
She handed one to Sam and asked, “So, how’s he doing this week?”
Sam grinned, crumbs already on his cheek. “He sniffed out Rosie’s ear infection before the doctor did. Wouldn’t stop whining until Mom checked.”
Carolyn laughed. “He also barked at the mailman again. So we’re working on that.”
Rick added, “I think he just hates junk mail.”
Margaret looked at the dog beside her.
“Still on the job, huh, Shadow?”
His tail thumped gently against the porch.
After tea, Margaret led Sam to the back room.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
Sam followed her past the ticking grandfather clock, past framed wedding photos and a dusty piano no one had touched in years.
On a shelf sat a cardboard box — taped, labeled in neat handwriting: “Shadow’s Things.”
Margaret opened it carefully.
Inside was a worn green vest, a frayed leash, a clicker trainer, and a folded bandana that smelled faintly of lavender.
“I was saving these,” she said. “For if he ever came back.”
She handed the vest to Sam.
“It doesn’t fit like it used to,” she added, “but sometimes… it’s not about the fit. It’s about the meaning.”
Sam held the vest like it was something holy.
The faded patch still read:
THERAPY SERVICE – DO NOT DISTRACT
NAME: SHADOW
He ran his fingers across the stitching. “Can I take it home?”
Margaret nodded. “He may never wear it again. But it belongs with him now.”
Sam placed it gently in his backpack, like carrying the weight of a medal.
Before they left, Margaret gave Rosie a soft kiss on the forehead and whispered something no one else heard.
As Rick buckled her into the car, Carolyn leaned in toward Margaret.
“Do you want to keep the visits going?”
Margaret smiled.
“They’re the best part of my week.”
She looked toward Shadow one last time.
He stood by the gate, waiting, watching.
Eyes still sharp. Still listening.
She raised her hand in a gentle wave.
“Good boy,” she said softly.
He didn’t move. But he blinked — once — like a soldier acknowledging an order.
Then turned to follow Sam back into the world.
Jackson – That Night
It was Carolyn’s idea to build a shadow box for the hallway.
A real one — with glass, and hooks, and a small brass plate.
Rick hung it by the front door.
Inside, Sam placed the therapy vest. The green collar. The lavender bandana. A copy of the “Lost Dog” ad. And the photo Margaret had mailed — the one of Shadow and her on the porch swing.
Carolyn slid the brass plate into place.
It read:
SHADOW – Known as Buddy.
He served with love. He stayed for family.
Rosie reached up and touched the glass.
“Buh-dee home.”
Sam whispered, “Yeah. He is.”
That night, Buddy curled beneath the kitchen table, just like always.
But Sam noticed his breathing was deeper.
Slower.
As if something inside him had finally gone still.
Three nights later, the storm came.
Thunder cracked across the windows like gunfire. The wind snapped tree limbs. Power blinked and went out.
Sam jolted awake.
“Buddy?” he called.
He grabbed a flashlight, padded barefoot down the stairs, heart racing.
Buddy wasn’t in the hallway.
Not in the laundry room. Not by the door.
Panic prickled Sam’s throat.
Then he heard it — faint whimpering from the coat closet.
He opened the door gently.
Buddy was curled into a tight ball, wedged behind old boots and umbrellas. His body shivered, eyes wide and unfocused.
Sam dropped to his knees.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re not alone.”
He crawled in beside him, wrapped his arms around the shaking ribs.
“I got you. Like you got me.”
They stayed there until the storm passed.
Until silence returned.
Until Buddy stopped shaking and fell asleep with his chin on Sam’s leg.
The next morning, Rick found them like that — both asleep, tangled in coats and warmth and something even stronger.
He didn’t wake them.
He just pulled a blanket from the couch, draped it over the boy and the dog, and whispered, “Good boy.”