Part 5 – Grandpa’s Lesson
The morning after Pepper’s stumble, the Benson house felt different. The children’s laughter seemed quieter, more fragile, as if every sound risked breaking something important. Pepper dozed near the fireplace, her chest rising in uneven but steady waves.
Nina watched her closely, hand always drifting toward the dog’s side, as if touch alone could keep her tethered. She thought again of Harold, of how he would have known what to say. He always had a way of making the hard things simple.
But Harold was gone, and the words belonged to her now.
Later that day, Nina found Eli and Maren sitting glumly on the back steps, their toys abandoned in the grass. The air smelled of lilac and cut grass, but the usual joy of summer had slipped past them.
She sat between them, her knees creaking as she lowered herself onto the step. “I want to tell you both a story,” she began.
Maren leaned against her side, while Eli kicked at the dirt.
“When your grandpa was a boy,” Nina said, “he had a pony named Daisy. She wasn’t the fastest, or the prettiest, but she was his best friend. He rode her everywhere—bareback, with his arms spread like wings. They were inseparable.”
Eli glanced up. “What happened?”
Nina smiled sadly. “Daisy got old. One day she couldn’t run anymore. She stumbled, just like Pepper did yesterday. Harold was heartbroken. He thought the fun was over.”
Maren’s eyes widened. “Was it?”
“No,” Nina said firmly. “Your grandpa learned something that day. He started brushing Daisy’s mane every morning, walking her slowly through the fields, feeding her apples by hand. And you know what he told me years later? He said those slow walks were the best part of his childhood. Because that’s when he really noticed the world—the smell of clover, the sound of crickets, the way Daisy’s ears flicked when he whispered to her.”
The children were quiet, thinking. Even Eli stopped kicking at the dirt.
“Sometimes,” Nina whispered, “love isn’t about racing or catching. Sometimes love means slowing down, so no one gets left behind. That’s what your grandpa learned. And that’s what Pepper is teaching us now.”
Maren sniffled, wiping her eyes. Eli stared into the yard, lips pressed tight. But neither argued.
That afternoon, Nina led them to Greenridge Park with a blanket, Harold’s photo album, and a small basket of sandwiches. They settled beneath the cottonwoods where Harold used to throw frisbees. The sun filtered gently through the leaves, dappling the grass.
Pepper lay on the blanket beside them, panting lightly, eyes half-closed but alert.
Nina opened the album, showing them pictures not just of Pepper but of Harold himself—young, lean, grinning as he held a frisbee high, the dog soaring toward it.
“He loved this park,” Nina murmured. “Said it made him feel like time stopped for a while.”
Eli touched one photo with his fingertips. “I miss him.”
“I do too,” Nina said, her voice catching.
Maren leaned close to Pepper, whispering into her fur. “Please don’t go too.”
Pepper sighed and pressed closer.
Nina closed the album and looked at the children. “You know what your grandpa used to tell me about days like this?”
They shook their heads.
“He said, ‘If you spend the whole time waiting for the end, you’ll miss the middle.’ That’s why we’re here. To make the middle count.”
After lunch, Nina pulled a scarf from the basket and tied it loosely around her eyes.
“What are you doing?” Eli asked.
“A new game,” she said. “It’s called ‘Guide Pepper.’ One of you leads me by the hand, the other guides Pepper with your voice. We see if we can walk together, slow and steady.”
Maren giggled nervously. “What if you trip?”
“Then you pick me up,” Nina said with a smile. “That’s the point—we learn to trust each other.”
So they tried. Eli took her hand, leading her carefully around the park, while Maren called to Pepper in a gentle voice. “Come on, girl. This way.”
Pepper trotted slowly beside them, ears twitching at the sound of Maren’s encouragement. The four of them moved like a strange parade—blindfolded grandmother, solemn boy, patient girl, and weary but faithful dog.
When they made it back to the blanket, Nina pulled off the scarf. Her cheeks were damp, though she hadn’t realized she was crying.
“You see?” she whispered. “We can still move forward together. Just slower.”
Eli nodded, though his jaw tightened. Maren hugged Pepper fiercely.
That evening, as twilight painted the sky, the children sat cross-legged on the living room rug. Pepper lay in the center, her tail wagging faintly as they stroked her sides.
“Let’s make her a promise,” Maren said suddenly.
“What kind of promise?” Eli asked.
“That we won’t stop playing with her. Even if she can’t run, even if she can’t catch. We promise we’ll still love her.”
Nina’s breath caught.
Eli looked at his sister, then at Pepper. His eyes were wet, though he tried to hide it. “Okay,” he said gruffly. “I promise.”
Maren leaned down, whispering into Pepper’s ear. “We’ll be slow if you need slow.”
Pepper licked her cheek in reply.
Nina pressed Harold’s watch to her heart, hearing the tick, tick, tick. The sound of time, unrelenting. But tonight, it didn’t feel like a thief. It felt like a reminder. Every second mattered.
Before bed, Nina stood at the window, looking out over Cedar Falls. The streetlights glowed like scattered fireflies, and the faint sound of a train drifted from the distance. Pepper was curled at the foot of her bed, already asleep, her breathing soft but uneven.
Nina whispered into the quiet: “Thank you, Harold. For Daisy. For the lesson. For leaving me a way to teach them.”
She thought of the children’s promise, of their little hands on Pepper’s fur. She thought of the games they were inventing, the way sorrow was slowly becoming something tender.
Love, she realized, was not about holding on to what was. It was about learning how to stay when things change.
And though the road ahead would bring more signs, more stumbles, more tears, Nina felt a quiet strength settle in her chest.
They would walk it together. Slowly.
Part 6 – The Joyful Day, the Shadowed Night
The August sun rose hot and clear over Cedar Falls, the kind of day that begged for lemonade and bare feet in the grass. Nina Benson opened the kitchen door, letting in the hum of cicadas. Eli and Maren were already outside, tugging Pepper gently toward the yard.
“Come on, girl!” Maren called. “We’ve got a new game!”
Nina leaned against the doorframe, Harold’s watch cool against her wrist. Pepper moved slowly, her paws deliberate, but her tail wagged as she followed the children into the yard. The old dog seemed lighter today, as if the stumble in the park were already a fading shadow.
Nina allowed herself a breath of hope.
The children had rigged a course of sorts. They’d stacked empty cardboard boxes into a small maze, lined the edges with chalk drawings, and placed a frisbee at the end like a treasure.
“It’s a quest,” Eli announced. “Pepper has to find the prize.”
Maren clapped. “We’re the guards! We cheer her on.”
Nina smiled, settling into her rocker to watch. “All right then. Let’s see how she does.”
They guided Pepper carefully, clapping when she sniffed around corners, cheering when she nudged through gaps. Pepper’s ears perked, her eyes shining with the thrill of attention. She wasn’t racing—her steps were slow, her breaths heavy—but she was engaged, present, alive.
When she finally reached the frisbee and nudged it into Maren’s hands, the children erupted into applause. Maren hugged her, Eli rubbed her head. Pepper barked once, triumphant, and Nina laughed despite the ache that always lingered.
For a while, joy filled the yard. The children took turns guiding Pepper, making the maze more elaborate, finding new ways to let her “win.” Nina thought: This is what Harold meant about the middle. Don’t miss it.
That evening, they carried the celebration into the house. Maren insisted on making Pepper a “victory crown” of dandelions and clover. She placed it gently on the dog’s head while Eli snapped a picture with Nina’s old camera.
“She looks like a queen,” Maren whispered.
“She is,” Eli said softly.
Pepper licked their hands, the crown slipping sideways. The children’s laughter filled the house, weaving with the hum of the cicadas and the faint tick of Harold’s watch.
It was the kind of night Nina wished she could bottle forever.
But later, after the children were asleep, the shadow returned.
Nina sat by the window, the lamp casting a thin circle of light. Pepper lay on her side nearby, breathing shallowly. Suddenly her chest hitched, a rattling cough shaking her body.
“Pepper,” Nina whispered, rushing to her side. She stroked her fur, murmuring soft words, though her own heart pounded with dread. The cough subsided, but Pepper’s eyes were glazed, her sides rising too fast.
Nina stayed with her on the floor, counting each breath, tears blurring her vision. She remembered Harold’s last weeks—how the doctor had said “time is short,” and how every breath of his had felt like a borrowed miracle.
When Pepper finally settled, her breathing evening out, Nina pressed her forehead to the dog’s side. “Not yet,” she begged. “Please, not yet.”
The night stretched long. The tick of the watch mocked her with its steadiness. She didn’t sleep at all.
The next morning, Eli and Maren bounded downstairs, still glowing from yesterday’s games. They froze when they saw Nina curled on the rug, Pepper’s head in her lap, her face pale with exhaustion.
“Grandma?” Maren whispered.
Nina forced a smile. “She had a hard night, but she’s better now.”
Eli’s eyes darkened. “Is she dying?”
The word was sharp, like a blade. Nina took a deep breath. “Not today. But yes, someday. So we make today count.”
The children sank to the floor beside Pepper, stroking her gently. Maren whispered, “We’ll make today the best.”
They decided to skip the park. Instead, they spent the morning baking dog biscuits in the kitchen. Flour dusted the counters, honey dripped across Maren’s sleeve, and Eli shaped the dough into clumsy hearts. The smell of peanut butter filled the house.
Pepper lay on the rug, nose twitching, eyes following their every move. When the biscuits cooled, they fed her one warm from the pan. She chewed slowly, tail sweeping the floor.
“She likes it!” Eli grinned, pride softening the lines of worry on his face.
Nina tucked that smile deep into her memory.
In the afternoon, they built a “snuggle fort” in the living room. Blankets draped across chairs, pillows piled high. Pepper was coaxed inside, lying in the center while the children curled around her. They whispered stories about when she was young, about how she “flew higher than kites” and “ran faster than trains.”
Nina sat in her rocker nearby, listening. The fort glowed with flashlight beams and giggles, and for a while, the heaviness lifted again.
It was Maren’s voice that broke through, quiet but certain. “Even if she can’t catch anymore, she still catches us.”
Nina’s breath caught. The child had spoken what her own heart had been trying to say.
That evening, as the sun slipped low, they walked slowly around the block with Pepper. Neighbors waved from porches, children pedaled past on bikes. Pepper moved steadily, head low but tail wagging.
When they reached the corner, Eli suddenly took off running down the sidewalk, frisbee in hand. He stopped halfway, turned, and shouted: “Catch me, Pepper!”
The dog barked once, startled. Maren giggled and ran after Eli, pretending to be the dog. Nina followed slowly, heart swelling and breaking at once.
Pepper didn’t run. She simply stood, watching them, eyes soft with love.
When Eli returned breathless, he knelt and hugged her neck. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll do the running for you.”
Nina pressed her hands together, Harold’s watch biting into her skin. The moment etched itself deep—raw, painful, beautiful.
That night, after the children were in bed, Nina carried the old cracked frisbee onto the porch. She held it in her hands, feeling the grooves where Pepper’s teeth had left their mark. The moon glowed pale above Cedar Falls, cicadas thrumming like a lullaby.
She whispered into the night: “Harold, I think they’re learning. Maybe I am too.”
Pepper padded out to join her, crown of clover still crooked on her head. She lowered herself at Nina’s feet with a sigh.
Nina bent down, pressing her lips to the dog’s brow. “Thank you for staying.”
The watch ticked. The stars burned. The night was fragile, but for now, they still had the middle.