There comes a day when the game changes—whether you want it to or not.
One toss too high, one heart that can’t keep up, and everything feels heavier.
The children still laugh, the sky still shines, but love learns to walk slower.
You wonder if memory hurts more than loss itself.
And then you hear the silence where the catch used to be.
Part 1 – The Game Has to Change
Grandma Nina Benson stood in the middle of Greenridge Park with a frisbee in her hands. The late afternoon sun sank low behind the cottonwood trees, painting the grass in gold. Her grandchildren—Eli and Maren—watched, bouncing with the sort of energy only nine- and eleven-year-olds could carry. And at her feet, tail thumping against the dirt, sat Pepper.
Pepper was once the queen of this park. A black-and-white Border Collie mix with a streak of chestnut running down her side, she had leapt like lightning through these very fields. People used to stop their walks just to watch her soar, mouth snapping shut around the plastic disc, eyes glinting like jewels. She was all grace, all fire, all joy.
But not anymore.
Pepper still wanted to run. Her body trembled with the desire, paws flexing against the earth, nostrils flaring at the faint chemical tang of the frisbee. Yet Nina had seen the vet’s face last month when he pressed the stethoscope to Pepper’s chest. A heart murmur, he said. Serious. The kind that didn’t heal. Exercise had to be limited. Too much strain could shorten what time Pepper had left.
Nina hadn’t told the children everything. How could she? To them, Pepper was still invincible. To Nina, she was both gift and grief—the living memory of her late husband Harold, who’d first brought the dog home as a pup. Every toss of the frisbee felt like Harold’s voice calling through the years.
“Grandma,” Eli said, tugging at her sleeve. “Why aren’t you throwing it? Pepper’s waiting.”
Maren cupped her hands around her mouth. “C’mon, girl! Go get it!”
Pepper barked once, sharp and eager, rising to her feet.
Nina’s fingers tightened around the frisbee. She thought of Harold’s old watch, heavy and scratched, that she still wore on her wrist. The watch ticked faintly, stubbornly, though Harold himself was long gone. Time doesn’t stop for anyone—not for a husband, not for a dog.
She crouched, lowering the frisbee instead of tossing it. Pepper’s head tilted, puzzled. Instead of sending it sailing high into the air, Nina rolled it gently across the grass.
The children groaned. “That’s not how you do it!” Eli said.
Pepper blinked, then trotted after the disc. She nosed it, pawed it, and finally picked it up, carrying it back with her tail wagging. Not a leap, not a catch—but a victory all the same.
“Good girl,” Nina whispered. She rubbed behind Pepper’s ear, feeling the thrum of fragile life beneath her fingers.
Maren frowned. “Why didn’t you throw it high?”
Nina looked at both children, then out across the park where the younger families were gathered. She saw a teenage boy tossing a neon frisbee to his Labrador, saw the great arc of it, saw the effortless leap. For a moment, she ached with envy.
“Because,” she said softly, “sometimes the game has to change.”
The children didn’t understand. Not yet.
They kept begging her to throw it harder, higher, farther. Nina only rolled it again, her heart twisting each time Pepper chased it down at her own gentle pace. The dog didn’t complain. She only looked back with eyes full of trust, full of love, as if to say: This is enough. As long as we are together, this is enough.
When the sun dipped lower, they packed up. Eli muttered under his breath about it being “boring.” Maren dragged her feet, pouting. Pepper padded between them, sides heaving lightly, content but tired.
Back at the Benson house—a small craftsman-style home on the quiet side of Cedar Falls, Iowa—the evening shadows stretched long across the porch. Nina sat in her old rocking chair, Harold’s watch cold on her wrist, Pepper curled up at her feet. The children played on the swing set in the yard, their voices rising and falling.
Nina stroked Pepper’s fur, noticing the gray hairs creeping around her muzzle. She thought of all the years she had already been given. She thought of all that was slipping away.
“You used to fly, didn’t you?” she whispered into the twilight.
Pepper shifted, sighing, her chest rattling faintly as she exhaled.
And in that moment Nina felt it: the shadow of the future pressing close. A truth she could no longer keep hidden from the children. A truth that would break their bright little hearts.
She looked down at Pepper, then out at Eli and Maren, and she knew—sooner than later—she would have to tell them.
That Pepper could no longer catch.
That love meant slowing down.
That every game, every bond, every life has its limits.
And as the crickets began to sing, Nina’s throat tightened.
Because she knew the hardest catch of all was still ahead: the moment when the children would realize that sometimes, even the best dog in the park can’t keep running forever.
Part 2 – The Heart’s Secret
The next morning, rain tapped lightly against the windows of Nina Benson’s kitchen. The world outside was washed in gray, the kind of slow, thoughtful weather that seemed to invite secrets to the surface.
Nina poured oatmeal into bowls for Eli and Maren, who were hunched at the table, still half-asleep. Pepper lay stretched out on the braided rug near the stove, her head resting on her paws. Every few moments her tail thumped lazily, responding to the children’s chatter.
“Grandma,” Eli asked between spoonfuls, “are we going to the park again today? I bet if you throw it right, Pepper could still catch.”
Maren perked up. “Yeah, you didn’t throw it high yesterday. Maybe she was just confused.”
Nina stirred honey into her own bowl, her hand trembling slightly. She thought of the vet’s words, clear as bells she didn’t want to hear: Don’t overexert her. Limit the running. She can still enjoy life, but you must be careful.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to shield the children from that truth a little longer, to let them have their bright bubble of belief. But bubbles always burst.
“We’ll see about the park,” Nina said. “Maybe we can play a different kind of game.”
The children groaned in unison. “Different isn’t fun,” Eli muttered.
Pepper’s ears flicked at his voice. She lifted her head, watching the boy with patient, cloud-soft eyes.
Later that morning, the rain cleared. The sky broke open into a pale blue, thin sunlight scattering across the yard. Nina led the children outside, carrying a basket under her arm.
“What’s in there?” Maren asked.
Nina knelt in the grass, pulling out old tennis balls, an empty plastic milk jug, and two faded dish towels. “New games,” she said.
Eli frowned. “That’s not new. That’s junk.”
But Pepper rose from her spot on the porch, interest gleaming in her eyes. Her paws padded carefully across the damp grass, nose twitching at the basket.
“Watch this,” Nina said. She knotted one towel through the handle of the jug, tied it tight, then dragged it along the grass. Pepper’s ears shot up. She lunged, gently biting down, tugging with a growl that was more play than menace.
The children laughed despite themselves.
“See?” Nina said. “Pepper can still play—just slower.”
They took turns dragging the jug, cheering as Pepper trotted after it, tugging, shaking, carrying it back. She tired quickly, lying down after only a few minutes, her chest rising and falling fast. But her eyes sparkled.
Maren knelt beside her, stroking her side. “She looks happy,” she said softly.
“She is,” Nina replied. “Sometimes happy doesn’t look the same as it used to.”
The words tasted like Harold’s voice, as if he’d whispered them through her.
That evening, after the children had washed and curled into bed, Nina sat by the living room window. The lamp beside her cast a circle of light, and in her lap rested Harold’s old watch. She wound it carefully, listening to the tick.
She remembered the day Harold brought Pepper home. A wriggling puppy, barely weaned, with ears too large for her head. “She’s going to fly one day,” Harold had said, cradling her as if she were made of glass.
And she had. For years, Pepper flew. Harold’s throws were always wild—too long, too sharp—but Pepper made every one look perfect. Together they had been a spectacle, a pair bound by timing and trust.
Now both were gone—or nearly so. Harold beneath the ground two winters past, Pepper slipping slowly into fragility.
Nina pressed the watch to her chest. The steady tick was a cruel comfort.
The next day, they returned to Greenridge Park. Eli and Maren carried the frisbee, still full of hope. Pepper’s paws sank into the grass as they reached their favorite open space. Families dotted the park—joggers, picnics, children shrieking by the playground.
“Okay, Grandma,” Eli said. “This time you throw it right.”
Nina hesitated. The children’s faces were expectant, unaware. Pepper’s tail swished, her gaze fixed on the frisbee like a compass needle to true north.
Nina’s chest ached. She wanted, just once more, to give them the sight of Pepper leaping high, soaring against the sky. She lifted her arm, felt the familiar weight, the muscle memory.
And then she froze.
Pepper’s sides already heaved from the walk across the park. Her tongue lolled, drool darkening the grass. Nina imagined her pushing too hard, her heart stuttering, her body collapsing mid-run.
She lowered the frisbee.
“No,” Nina whispered. “Not like that.”
The children protested, voices sharp with disappointment. Maren crossed her arms, scowling. “You’re ruining the game!”
Nina’s heart cracked. She knelt beside Pepper, placing the frisbee on the ground and rolling it gently across the grass. Pepper trotted after it, slower this time, but still returned with her tail wagging furiously.
The children sighed, exasperated. To them it was dull. To Nina it was salvation.
She met Pepper’s eyes as the dog nudged the disc into her lap. Those eyes shimmered with trust, with gratitude, with a love that asked nothing but presence.
And Nina knew: she had to tell the children the truth.
That night, she tucked them into bed. The house creaked with old bones. Rain whispered once more against the windows.
“Grandma?” Maren asked sleepily. “Why don’t you throw it high anymore?”
Nina sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket. Pepper lay curled in the hall, her breathing steady but faint.
“Because,” Nina said softly, “Pepper’s heart isn’t as strong as it used to be. If she runs too hard, it could hurt her.”
The children stared at her. Eli’s face twisted, confusion giving way to worry. “Hurt her how?”
Nina swallowed. “She has something called a heart murmur. It means we have to be gentle with her now.”
Silence filled the room. The kind of silence that carried weight.
Maren’s eyes brimmed with tears. “But… she’s the best catcher in the world.”
“She was,” Nina whispered. “And she still is. Just in a different way.”
Eli turned his face to the wall. Maren pressed her face against Nina’s side, trembling. Nina wrapped her arms around them both, her own tears sliding silently into the children’s hair.
“Listen to me,” she said. “Pepper can still play. She can still love. But sometimes, love means slowing down, so no one gets left behind.”
The words lingered in the dim room, heavy as truth, soft as prayer.
Outside, the rain fell harder, drumming on the roof like a heartbeat.
Pepper stirred in the hall, lifting her head. She didn’t know the words, didn’t need to. She only knew the nearness of her family, the warmth of love that bent itself to her pace.
And in that moment, Nina knew they would all learn together.
That life was still beautiful, even when the leaps became slower.
Part 3 – The Slower Game
The next morning, Eli sulked at the breakfast table. He poked at his scrambled eggs as if they were an enemy. Maren sat quieter than usual, her hands folded in her lap, eyes swollen from the tears she had shed the night before.
Pepper padded into the kitchen, nails clicking softly against the worn linoleum. She gave a short, hopeful bark, tail wagging. When no one greeted her, she lowered her head and pressed her muzzle against Eli’s knee.
He didn’t push her away. But he didn’t smile, either.
Nina poured her coffee and sat down, careful with her words. “You both heard me last night. Pepper can’t do what she used to. But that doesn’t mean she’s done giving us joy.”
Eli muttered without looking up, “She’s not the same anymore.”
Maren shot him a glare, as if the words themselves were cruel. She bent down and wrapped her arms around Pepper’s neck. “She’s still Pepper,” she whispered fiercely, burying her face in the dog’s fur.
Pepper licked her cheek, and for a moment the room softened. But Eli’s silence weighed on them all.
That afternoon, Nina gathered the children and the dog into the living room. She held a photo album across her lap, the thick, leather-bound one Harold used to keep.
“What’s that for?” Eli asked, slumping onto the couch.
Nina opened to a page filled with photographs of Pepper in her prime—mid-leap, mouth wide, catching frisbees against a backdrop of summer skies. Harold’s broad figure stood behind her in several shots, grinning, arm outstretched.
Maren gasped. “She really did fly.”
Eli leaned closer despite himself. His eyes lingered on one picture of Pepper soaring, body stretched like an arrow, Harold’s hand frozen mid-throw. “I remember that day,” he murmured.
“You were only six,” Nina said, smiling faintly. “It was the Fourth of July. The fireworks started too soon, and Pepper barked at the sky like she could chase them down.”
Maren giggled at the image. Even Eli’s lips twitched.
Nina tapped the page. “See? This is who she’s always been. And she’s still her. Only now, we have to love her differently.”
Eli frowned. “It feels like we’re losing her.”
Nina’s chest ached. She thought of Harold’s watch on her wrist, ticking without him. “Losing comes whether we want it or not. But if we stop loving just because it looks different, then we lose twice.”
The children fell silent. The tick of the clock in the hall filled the space. Pepper yawned, resting her head on Maren’s foot as if to remind them she was still here.
Later, they walked to Greenridge Park again. The sun was warm, drying the earth after two days of rain. Nina carried the basket of “new games” while Eli and Maren trailed behind, subdued.
When they reached the open field, Nina pulled out a handful of small dog biscuits and scattered them in the grass. “This one’s called Find It,” she said.
Pepper’s nose twitched immediately. She lowered her head, sniffing eagerly, tail wagging as she tracked down one biscuit, then another.
Maren clapped her hands. “She’s so smart!”
Eli watched, skeptical, then slowly knelt down and hid a biscuit under a leaf. “Let’s see if she can find this one.”
Pepper circled, sniffed, then dug her nose beneath the leaf, crunching happily. Eli’s eyes widened, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.
“There you go,” Nina said softly. “It’s not flying. But it’s still play.”
The children joined in, hiding biscuits in trickier places. Pepper worked at each one, delighted by the challenge. Soon Eli was laughing, chasing after her as she outwitted his attempts.
For a moment, the heaviness lifted.
But as they sat in the grass afterward, Pepper curled at their feet, Eli’s brow furrowed again. “Grandma,” he asked, “how long will she have?”
Nina’s breath caught. She glanced at the children’s solemn faces, at Pepper dozing beside them. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “The doctor didn’t give a number. Could be years, could be less. What matters is making every day good for her.”
Maren’s small hand slipped into Nina’s. “I don’t want her to go.”
Nina squeezed it. “Neither do I.”
The park around them hummed with life—children squealing, dogs barking, the distant sound of a saxophone from a street corner. Yet their little circle felt suspended, fragile.
Eli lay back in the grass, staring up at the sky. “If she can’t catch anymore, maybe we can do the running for her.”
Nina tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
He rolled onto his side, face brightening. “We could catch the frisbee instead. She can roll it, and we go chase.”
Maren’s eyes widened. “We’d be the dogs!”
The children burst into laughter at the thought, but already Maren was up on her feet, pretending to pant and bark. Nina smiled through the ache in her chest. Perhaps love truly was just learning to switch places.
That night, Nina found herself alone on the porch. The cicadas droned, the air thick with August heat. Pepper lay at her feet, half-asleep, her breathing uneven but steady.
Nina stroked her fur, whispering into the night. “I don’t know how to do this without Harold. I don’t know how to guide them through the kind of hurt you can’t fix.”
Pepper shifted, pressing her head against Nina’s ankle. As if to say: You’re not alone. Not yet.
Nina blinked against the sting in her eyes. She thought of Harold’s watch, ticking on her wrist. She thought of all the games they had played, all the throws, all the leaps. And she thought of the children, faces pale with the first brush of mortality.
Love was never meant to be easy. But maybe it was meant to be shared.
She leaned back in her rocking chair, staring out at the stars. The night stretched wide and endless, but in her heart, she clung to a smaller, truer thing: the warmth of Pepper’s body, the echo of Harold’s laughter, the weight of her grandchildren’s trust.
Tomorrow, the games would be slower. Tomorrow, she would teach them again.
And tomorrow, Pepper would still be here.
Part 4 – The First Sign
The following week slid by with a rhythm Nina hadn’t expected. Mornings were slow, the air thick with Iowa summer. The children tumbled out of bed, and instead of tugging at her sleeve for frisbee practice, they carried biscuits and tennis balls into the yard.
Pepper grew used to the new games. “Find It” became her favorite, and Eli had started inventing trickier hiding places—inside flowerpots, beneath overturned buckets, even wedged between porch steps. Maren clapped and squealed each time Pepper’s nose tracked the treat, and even Eli, once sullen, began to laugh again.
Nina watched from her rocker on the porch, Harold’s old watch heavy on her wrist. She thought of how grief could shift, just slightly, into something gentler when shared.
But beneath the laughter, worry never left her. She counted Pepper’s breaths when the dog slept. She watched the faint tremor that sometimes rippled across her chest. Each thump of the heart felt like a clock winding down.
One afternoon, after the children had finished hiding biscuits and were sprawled in the grass, Nina called them over.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
From the living room cabinet, she pulled a faded cardboard box. The children peered inside. It was full of Harold’s old frisbees—some cracked, others scarred with teeth marks, each one carrying its own history.
Maren held one up, the plastic dull and scratched. “These are Pepper’s?”
“Yes,” Nina said, running her fingers over the grooves. “Your grandfather never threw straight, but Pepper never let one hit the ground. Not once.”
Eli looked down at the pile. “What do we do with them now?”
Nina’s throat tightened. “We remember.”
The words seemed too small, but they were all she had.
That evening, Nina suggested a new game. “Roll It Back.” She rolled a frisbee gently across the yard, Pepper chasing after it. But instead of carrying it all the way back in her mouth, she nudged it forward with her nose, pushing it bit by bit until it returned to the children.
Maren laughed so hard she fell on her side. “She’s playing soccer!”
Even Eli joined in, chasing alongside Pepper as if he were her teammate.
For a little while, the sorrow lifted. They laughed until the fireflies came out, until Pepper collapsed happily at their feet, tongue lolling.
But two days later, the first real sign came.
They were in the park, playing a soft round of “Find It” near the cottonwoods. Pepper was sniffing at a patch of grass when suddenly she staggered. Her legs buckled for an instant, her body swaying as if the earth itself had tilted beneath her.
“Pepper!” Maren shrieked, rushing forward.
Nina’s heart stopped. She dropped to her knees, gathering the dog close. Pepper’s chest rose and fell too quickly, her tongue darkened at the edges. For a terrifying moment, Nina thought it was the end.
But then, just as suddenly, Pepper steadied. She licked Maren’s tearful face and wagged her tail, weak but alive.
The children clung to her, sobbing in fear. Nina stroked Pepper’s fur, whispering nonsense words, anything to steady them. Her own hands shook so badly she could barely hold the dog.
When Pepper finally rose to her feet, walking gingerly, the children looked at Nina with wide, wet eyes. “Grandma,” Eli whispered, “she almost—”
“I know,” Nina said quickly. “But she didn’t.”
The three of them walked home in silence, Pepper moving slowly between them. Nina kept her hand on the dog’s back the whole way, feeling each fragile step.
That night, Nina couldn’t sleep. She sat by the kitchen window, the moonlight spilling pale across the linoleum. Harold’s watch ticked faintly. She pressed her face into her hands, fighting tears.
She wanted to scream at him—for leaving her to face this alone, for not being here to hold the children when the dog stumbled, for not whispering some kind of answer.
But grief has no answers. Only echoes.
Pepper stirred at her feet, sighing softly. Nina reached down, resting her hand on the dog’s chest. The beat was there, steady but uneven. Each thud felt like a reminder: Not yet. Not tonight.
The next morning, the children were pale and quiet at breakfast. Eli pushed his cereal away, untouched. Maren’s eyes were rimmed red.
“Is Pepper dying?” Eli asked bluntly.
The question landed like a stone in Nina’s chest. She set her spoon down. “One day, yes. But yesterday wasn’t that day.”
Maren’s voice trembled. “How will we know?”
Nina swallowed hard. “We’ll know when she doesn’t get back up. But until then, every day we have her is a gift. That’s what your grandpa used to say about life—every sunrise is one more chance.”
The children nodded, but their faces didn’t brighten. Fear had entered the house, and fear rarely leaves once it finds the door.
That afternoon, Nina brought out one of Harold’s frisbees. It was cracked down the middle, nearly broken, but still whole enough to hold in her hands. She carried it into the yard where the children sat listlessly.
“See this?” she asked.
Eli shrugged. “It’s busted.”
“Yes,” Nina said. “But even broken, it still holds our memories. Harold threw this the day Pepper caught three in a row so perfectly the whole park clapped. He swore she had wings.”
Maren touched the scarred plastic. “Why keep it if it’s broken?”
“Because broken things can still remind us of what was beautiful,” Nina said softly. “And they remind us to take care of what we still have.”
She rolled the disc gently across the grass. Pepper ambled after it, nudging it back, tail wagging faintly. The children watched, and slowly, their shoulders loosened.
For the first time since the stumble in the park, Maren giggled. “She still loves the game.”
“She does,” Nina said. “She just plays it her way now.”
That evening, as the cicadas sang, Nina sat again on the porch with Harold’s watch on her wrist and Pepper at her feet. She thought of the stumble, of the fragile beat beneath her palm, of the children’s frightened faces.
She rocked gently, whispering into the night. “If you can hear me, Harold, give me the strength to teach them what this means. To show them how to love even when the game changes. To hold them steady when the end comes.”
The stars blinked above. The watch ticked. And Pepper sighed in her sleep, curling closer to Nina’s ankles as if answering: Not yet. I’m still here.
Nina closed her eyes, letting the sound of that uneven but determined breath carry her into the long night.