Part 5 – The Dispatcher’s Goodbye
The hum of the clinic filled the space—phones ringing, footsteps shuffling, muted conversations at the front desk. But in the treatment room where Gloria sat, time seemed to bend around the slow rise and fall of Roscoe’s chest. Each breath was a victory. Each pause between them a test of her faith.
She kept one hand inside the kennel, fingers curled loosely around his paw. His fur felt coarse, dry in places, warm in others. She had held countless hands through the phone line—strangers gasping, sobbing, whispering—but this paw anchored her more than any of them.
Anna moved quietly around the room, jotting notes on a chart. She glanced up. “He’s hanging on. That’s a good sign.”
Gloria nodded, though her throat ached with doubt. “Hanging on is what I told too many people before they… slipped away.”
Anna stopped writing. “You still carry them, don’t you?”
“All of them,” Gloria whispered. “Some nights I can almost hear the headset crackle alive. A mother screaming. A man choking out his last words. I told myself they faded with retirement. They didn’t.”
Anna set the chart down and pulled over a chair. “My grandmother used to say memories don’t fade—they either drown us or teach us how to breathe underwater.”
Gloria gave a weak laugh. “Smart woman.”
“She was,” Anna said. “But she carried guilt, too. Said it weighed as much as the people she couldn’t save. The trick, she told me, is remembering we’re not God. We’re just voices trying to hold someone until help gets there.”
Gloria stared at Roscoe’s still form. “But what if help doesn’t get there?”
Anna didn’t answer right away. Her eyes softened, heavy with honesty. “Then being held is enough.”
The words slid into Gloria’s chest, painful and healing at once. She thought of Harold again, of that morning she wasn’t there. Maybe he hadn’t needed saving. Maybe he had just needed not to be alone. And she had failed him in that.
But she wouldn’t fail Roscoe.
Hours passed in fragments—nurses coming and going, machines beeping, daylight shifting across the linoleum floor. Gloria barely noticed hunger or thirst. She lived in the rhythm of her dog’s breaths.
At midday, the vet returned with updated bloodwork. He leaned against the counter, expression grave but not hopeless. “His liver values are concerning. It may explain the seizures. We can start medication, but long term…”
Gloria braced herself. “How long?”
The vet hesitated. “Could be months. Could be a year. Dogs with epilepsy can live well on treatment, but his age complicates things. You’ll need to watch for breakthrough seizures. Be ready to bring him in again.”
Be ready. Those two words again. They felt like an order she could never complete.
“Will he suffer?” she asked, her voice low.
“Not if we manage it carefully,” the vet replied. “But there will be risks.”
Gloria nodded, though her insides quaked. Risks were the landscape she had walked her whole life. She could live with them. What she couldn’t live with was losing him too soon.
When the vet left, she leaned closer to Roscoe, her lips near his ear. “Hear that, boy? They’re giving us more time. I’ll take every second.”
His ear twitched, and she smiled through tears.
By afternoon, fatigue settled heavy on her bones. Her eyelids drooped, but she forced them open. She had spent too many nights awake in the dispatch center to let herself doze now. Not when every second mattered.
Anna noticed. “You need rest. You’ve been here all night.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Gloria said firmly.
“I didn’t say leave,” Anna replied gently. “Just… lean back. Close your eyes. I’ll watch him. You can trust me.”
Gloria studied her. The earnestness in Anna’s face was undeniable, the steadiness already proven. Slowly, she leaned back, still keeping her hand through the kennel bars. Her eyelids fluttered, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself to drift.
Her dreams were a tangle of voices—dispatch calls, cries, the hum of the headset. But through the chaos came one sound clear as a bell: Roscoe’s steady breath. It carried her, anchored her.
When she woke, an hour had passed. Anna was still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the kennel, reading quietly from a medical textbook. She looked up with a smile. “He’s been calm.”
Gloria’s heart warmed with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Anna said. “You’ve been keeping him steady. I’m just following your lead.”
The words startled Gloria. Her lead. She hadn’t thought of herself as anyone’s guide in years. But maybe she still was.
Later that evening, as the clinic quieted again, Anna asked, “What did you do after you retired?”
Gloria hesitated. “Nothing. Sat in my house. Walked Roscoe. Listened to silence. It was supposed to be peace, but it felt like… emptiness.”
“Do you miss it? Dispatching?”
Gloria sighed. “I miss mattering. My voice used to hold people in their worst moments. Now it doesn’t even fill my own kitchen.”
Anna leaned forward, earnest. “But tonight it mattered. You steadied that tech. You steadied me. You’ve steadied Roscoe every second.”
Gloria’s eyes burned. She whispered, “Do you really think it still matters?”
“I know it does,” Anna said firmly. “Some voices never lose their power. They just need new places to be heard.”
The words cracked something open inside Gloria. Maybe her life wasn’t finished. Maybe her voice had more to give—if only she could find where.
She reached through the bars again, stroking Roscoe’s paw. “Then I’ll keep talking. For him. For anyone who needs it.”
Anna smiled. “That’s what makes people like you unforgettable.”
Night settled once more. The clinic dimmed, staff dwindled. Gloria remained by Roscoe’s side, humming softly, her voice a steady river.
At one point, Roscoe stirred, his blind eyes blinking open. He let out a low whine, uncertain.
Gloria leaned close, her forehead nearly touching his. “It’s me, boy. Always me. You’re safe.”
And though he couldn’t see, his body relaxed at the sound, pressing closer to the bars.
Tears slid down her cheeks. She realized then that her voice was more than memory—it was his world. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear her, and that was enough.
Her voice was his light.
The weight of that truth nearly undid her. She pressed her face into her hands, sobbing quietly, the years of silence cracking apart. She had been so afraid she no longer mattered. But to Roscoe, she was everything.
When she lifted her head, Anna was watching quietly from the doorway. She didn’t speak, didn’t intrude, just gave a nod of understanding.
Gloria whispered to herself, but the words filled the room like a vow: “I will not let him go alone. Not ever.”
The night deepened. Machines hummed. Rain began again outside, tapping against the windows.
Gloria closed her eyes, still holding Roscoe’s paw, and breathed in time with him. For the first time in years, the silence did not feel empty. It felt alive.
But when his body shuddered suddenly, a tremor racing through him, her heart seized. His legs twitched violently, his chest spasming against the oxygen line.
Another seizure was beginning.
Gloria leapt to her feet, voice strong as thunder: “Anna! He needs you—now!”
The young woman sprinted back, already pulling gloves on.
And Gloria knew: the fight wasn’t over. Not for Roscoe. Not for her.
Part 6 – The Dispatcher’s Goodbye
Roscoe’s body jerked violently, his paws striking the kennel bars with hollow clangs. Foam flecked his lips, and his clouded eyes rolled back. Gloria’s heart lurched so hard she thought it might stop.
“Anna!” she shouted again, though Anna was already at her side, sliding the kennel door open. The young woman moved with quick certainty, easing Roscoe onto the padded floor.
“Time it,” Anna ordered the tech who rushed in behind her. “We need to know the duration.”
The old dispatcher in Gloria clicked alive, muscle memory rising. She yanked her wristwatch up to eye level, thumb pressing the button. “Starting now,” she said, voice sharp and steady.
Anna knelt, supporting Roscoe’s head with a towel to prevent injury. “Good boy, you’re okay. You’re safe.” Her voice was low, even, almost identical to Gloria’s when she soothed callers through the phone line.
Gloria crouched beside them, her hand on Roscoe’s trembling flank. “You’re not alone,” she whispered, holding herself steady against the flood of helplessness. She forced calm into her tone, knowing he could feel it even if he couldn’t understand the words.
The seizure raged on—his body stiff, back legs kicking. Seconds felt like years.
“Thirty seconds,” Gloria announced.
Anna’s eyes flicked toward her with quiet appreciation. “Good. Keep timing.”
The tech handed over diazepam, hands less shaky than before. Anna administered it, her movements clean and practiced.
“Sixty seconds,” Gloria said.
Roscoe’s tremors began to slow, his body shuddering with exhausted jerks before collapsing limp. His chest heaved, tongue lolling, but breath came.
“Seventy-five,” Gloria finished. She exhaled a long, shaky breath, the air trembling out of her like steam.
Anna checked his vitals, then sat back on her heels. “He’s out. Still breathing. We’ll keep monitoring.”
The tech noted the time, wiped his brow, and slipped out, leaving the two women with the dog who lay sprawled like a soldier after battle.
Gloria knelt fully, gathering Roscoe’s head into her lap. Tears slid down her cheeks unchecked. “You stubborn old boy,” she whispered. “You scared me half to death.”
Anna touched her shoulder lightly. “He fought hard. He’s still with you.”
Gloria swallowed, her throat raw. “For how long? How many times can his body keep doing this?”
Anna hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Every seizure takes a toll. But dogs are resilient. Sometimes more than we give them credit for. What matters most is that he feels safe.”
Gloria stroked Roscoe’s ear, her tears dampening his fur. Safe. That had been her job all her life—building safety out of words. And now, all she could do was sit on a clinic floor with a blind dog and offer the same.
The hours after blurred together, fatigue and adrenaline mixing until Gloria felt hollowed out. She refused the cot offered by the staff, keeping vigil at Roscoe’s kennel. Every twitch of his legs, every hitch in his breathing sent her stomach clenching.
By dawn, he was still alive, though weak. His eyes, clouded and distant, searched blindly when she whispered his name.
“I’m here,” she said, pressing her hand against the bars. He turned his muzzle toward her, as if following her voice through fog.
Her chest ached with fierce love. She realized something then: for Roscoe, her voice wasn’t just comfort. It was the only tether he had to the world. Without sight, sound was everything. She was his map, his compass, his safe place.
The thought both warmed and shattered her. Because one day soon, her voice would not be enough.
That morning, Anna returned with her hair damp, a thermos of coffee in hand. She smiled faintly. “You look like you’ve been through war.
Gloria gave a tired laugh. “Feels like it.”
Anna poured coffee into a paper cup, handing it over. “I thought about you last night. The way you timed the seizure, the way you steadied everyone. That wasn’t just instinct—it was training. You’re still a dispatcher, even here.”
Gloria shook her head. “I’m retired. Just a tired old woman watching her dog fall apart.”
“No,” Anna said firmly. “You’re proof that calm can ripple outward. You kept us anchored. You kept me anchored.”
The words silenced Gloria. She sipped the coffee, bitter and grounding, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, Anna was right.
By midday, the vet called Gloria into his office. His face carried that practiced compassion she knew too well.
“Ms. Tennant, Roscoe’s prognosis is guarded. We can start medication for seizures, but his liver disease complicates it. He may have weeks, months if we’re lucky. But the episodes will return.”
Gloria sat stiff, hands clasped in her lap. “And when they do?”
“You’ll have to decide how far you’re willing to go,” he said gently. “Tonight proved he’s a fighter. But one day, he may not win the battle.”
The words sat heavy in the air. Gloria nodded, unable to trust her voice.
Back at Roscoe’s side, she whispered into his fur. “Did you hear that, boy? They say you’re a fighter. But I already knew that.”
Anna sat nearby, scribbling notes. She looked up. “What will you do?”
Gloria sighed. “What I’ve always done. Take it call by call. Breathe until the next siren.”
Anna nodded. “Then maybe that’s enough.”
That evening, Gloria finally stepped outside into the crisp Tennessee air. The rain had passed, leaving the world washed clean. She stood under the wide sky, inhaling deeply, feeling the cool air in her lungs.
She thought of Harold, of the headset, of the years of silence. And she thought of Roscoe, blind but tethered to her voice, still fighting because she told him he wasn’t alone.
She realized she had been waiting for silence to heal her. But healing wasn’t in silence. It was in connection. In voices meeting across the gap.
When she went back inside, Anna caught her eye. “How’s the world out there?”
“Quieter,” Gloria said. Then she smiled faintly. “But not silent.”
That night, as she sat by Roscoe again, she made herself a promise.
She would be his dispatcher until the very end. She would carry him through the worst minutes of his life, just as she had carried so many strangers before.
And when the final call came, she would answer steady, strong, and present.
But for now, she leaned close to his ear and whispered the same words she had spoken for decades:
“You’re not alone. I’m here. Stay with me.”
Roscoe’s ear twitched, his breathing deepened, and Gloria felt her own heart settle into rhythm beside his.
For the first time in years, she believed her voice still had purpose.
But in the stillness that followed, she also knew: one day soon, she would have to use that same voice to say goodbye.