PART 8: BETWEEN TWO HOMES
Jackson, Mississippi – October 30, 2023
The storm passed, but something inside Buddy stayed unsettled.
He paced more often. Not frantic, but purposeful. Like he had a route to follow and didn’t want to miss a checkpoint. He sniffed each doorway, checked on Rosie twice an hour, and lay closer to Sam than usual — close enough that Sam could hear his breath, steady and low, like a distant engine.
Carolyn noticed the change. So did Rick.
But Sam understood it best.
“He’s keeping us safe,” Sam said. “Even from ghosts.”
Rick nodded. “Who keeps him safe?”
That question hung in the room like the smell of rain.
That week, Sam had an idea.
“Can we take him somewhere?” he asked his mom. “Somewhere nice. Just us and him.”
Carolyn looked up from the grocery list. “Where?”
“I dunno,” Sam said. “Not a park. Not the vet. Just… a place he doesn’t have to guard anything.”
Rick leaned in from the living room. “What about the lake?”
“LeFleur’s Bluff?” Carolyn asked. “That old trail?”
“Yeah,” Rick smiled. “Used to go there before the kids. Quiet. Good walking path. No fireworks.”
Sam looked at Buddy.
He was already at the door, tail flicking once.
LeFleur’s Bluff State Park – November 1
The trees were full gold now, with streaks of amber and copper. Fallen leaves scattered across the trail like forgotten letters. The lake shimmered in the distance — calm, wide, untouched.
Rick packed sandwiches. Carolyn brought apples and a thermos of cider. Rosie clutched her stuffed rabbit the entire ride.
Buddy sat in the back, head out the window, ears flapping, eyes half-closed against the wind.
Sam watched him.
Not as a pet.
Not even as a hero.
But as someone who had carried weight for too long.
They walked for over an hour. Slow. Unhurried. Buddy kept close to Rosie’s stroller, nudging it gently when it veered.
When they reached the lake’s edge, Rick spread a blanket beneath the old cypress tree. Carolyn handed out food.
Sam broke half his sandwich and held it out.
Buddy took it softly, chewed once, then sat beside him, leaning into the boy’s side like a shadow that had finally found light.
No barking. No pacing. Just quiet.
Peaceful.
Later, Sam wandered down to the shoreline. The lake lapped gently at his sneakers. He skipped a stone. It bounced twice, sank on the third.
He turned to see Buddy behind him.
“You like this?” Sam asked.
The dog blinked.
Sam reached down, scratched his neck.
“I think this is what you look like when you’re not working.”
Buddy huffed. A soft, almost amused sound.
“I’m glad you stayed,” Sam said. “But if you ever wanna go… I’d understand. Really.”
Buddy didn’t move.
He just stepped forward, dipped his paw in the water, and stood there beside Sam — as if to say:
I already chose.
On the drive home, Rosie fell asleep in her car seat. Rick hummed to the radio. Carolyn dozed with her head against the window.
Sam stayed awake.
Buddy’s chin rested on his knee. The wind ruffled the fur on his neck.
Sam whispered, “You got two homes now, huh?”
He smiled.
“Not bad for a dog with no name.”
Back at the house, Sam opened the memory box and took out the green collar.
He turned it over in his hands.
Then carefully, slowly, he stitched one more word beneath “SHADOW.”
In thread, uneven but earnest:
BUDDY
Not to replace.
To add.
Because now he wasn’t either/or.
He was both.
That Saturday, they returned to Margaret’s house with a surprise.
Carolyn brought tea. Rick carried a new potted fern. Sam held the memory box.
Margaret opened the door, eyes wide.
“For me?” she asked.
“No,” Sam grinned. “For him. For both parts of him.”
He placed the box on the table.
Margaret opened it. Her hand trembled.
Inside: the service vest. The lavender bandana. The Polaroid. And now, beside the old green collar, a note in Sam’s handwriting:
“Dear Margaret,
He didn’t forget you. We didn’t replace you.
He just found more people to love.
Thank you for letting him stay.”
Margaret didn’t speak.
She just leaned forward and kissed the boy on the forehead.
They sat together that afternoon in the sunroom.
Rosie drew on the window with her fingers. Rick dozed in the rocker. Carolyn crocheted a scarf with crooked edges.
Buddy lay in the center of it all, paws stretched, tail still.
And in that moment, it wasn’t about where he came from.
It was about where he was now.
When they left, Margaret walked them out to the porch.
She knelt beside Buddy one last time, scratched behind his good ear.
“You were always meant to have more than one home,” she said.
He pressed his nose to her chest, lingered there.
Then turned and walked back to the car.
That night, the Anderson porch light flickered once. Then steadied.
Sam opened the front door and found Buddy lying across the welcome mat.
A place between.
A dog between.
But finally — finally — at rest.