Part 4: The One Outside the Gate
Pine Hollow, Kentucky – June 6th, 2021 – 6:11 AM
The fourth morning after the river, Strayboy lay curled beneath the porch light, like a cast-iron statue dusted with dew. He hadn’t barked once. He didn’t beg. He just watched.
Every few minutes, his ears twitched at the sound of movement inside. A shadow behind the curtain. The creak of the kitchen floor.
But the door never opened.
Inside, Catherine Whitaker stood barefoot in the hallway, clutching a mug of lukewarm coffee.
She could see him through the side window.
Still.
Loyal.
Unmoving.
“He’s waiting for her,” said a voice behind her.
Catherine turned. Ruth Massey stood in the entryway with a small basket of clean towels and Lila’s forgotten sweater.
“He’s not coming inside,” Catherine said quietly.
“No,” Ruth said, setting the basket down. “He just wants to be near her.”
That morning, Catherine dressed Lila in fresh clothes and pulled her blonde hair into pigtails. She made oatmeal with honey. Sliced up strawberries.
She didn’t say much. Just watched her daughter eat and hum a tune no one had taught her.
Halfway through the meal, Lila looked toward the door and said, “He’s hungry.”
Catherine stirred her coffee. “He’s used to it.”
“That’s not fair,” the little girl said, and she sounded older than her three years.
Outside, a bowl appeared on the edge of the porch.
Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to see.
Inside was plain chicken broth and a piece of dry toast.
Ruth’s doing, most likely. Catherine hadn’t asked.
Strayboy didn’t eat it right away.
He sniffed it. Circled it once.
Then, in quiet, deliberate motion — he lay beside it and placed his chin in the grass.
He wasn’t there for food.
He was waiting. For something else. Someone.
By mid-morning, the neighborhood was buzzing.
“Still there?” Nolan asked, leaning against the hood of his rust-red Chevy across the street.
“Like a tombstone,” Mrs. Perkins answered from her lawn chair. “Hasn’t moved all morning.”
“Dog’s got more patience than most men I know.”
“He’s got more heart too.”
By lunchtime, Ruth had had enough. She knocked on the Whitaker door, harder than before.
Catherine opened it, tension in her shoulders.
“I brought flea spray,” Ruth said. “And a vet card. Just in case.”
“He’s not my dog.”
Ruth didn’t flinch. “No, he’s hers.”
“She’s three.”
“She’s honest.”
Catherine looked away.
“You don’t have to let him in,” Ruth added. “But you should stop pretending he doesn’t matter.”
Catherine bit her lip. Her hands trembled. “I’m not ready.”
“I know,” Ruth said softly. “But he’s waiting anyway.”
That night, Strayboy stood and stretched for the first time in hours.
He took two steps toward the door.
Then lay back down.
Inside, Lila stood in her pajamas, nose pressed to the glass.
“Tell him he’s good,” she whispered.
Catherine knelt beside her.
“I don’t know if he’ll understand.”
Lila turned. “He already does.”
The next day, Strayboy was missing.
Lila noticed first. She ran out barefoot, calling “Doggie?” into the wind.
Nothing.
The bowl sat untouched. The porch was cold.
“Maybe he’s tired,” Catherine offered, trying not to sound relieved. Or worried.
“He’s not tired,” Lila said. “He’s hurt.”
Catherine’s stomach knotted.
That afternoon, Ruth made her rounds through town, stopping at the fire station, the church, and the gas station.
“No one’s seen him,” she said grimly. “Last sighting was early this morning, by the train tracks.”
“Why would he go out there?” Catherine asked.
Ruth looked up from her teacup. “Because maybe he gave up waiting.”
That night, guilt wrapped itself around Catherine’s throat.
She walked the length of the yard three times. Called out twice.
No sign.
She dug through the laundry basket and pulled out Lila’s pink pinwheel — still bent, still stained at the edges. She hadn’t meant to keep it. But she had.
She set it in the grass by the front steps.
Then she left the porch light on.
At dawn, there was still no sign of him.
But at 9:12 a.m., Ruth’s phone rang.
She answered on the second ring. “Massey.”
“I found him,” said the deep voice of Dr. Halmer, the old veterinarian who still made house calls on Tuesdays.
“Where?”
“Under the church steps. Looks like he collapsed. Dehydration, fever, maybe more. Might be infection from a wound on the leg.”
“Is he alive?”
“Barely.”
When Ruth told Catherine, she didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.
Then: “I’ll pay.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes. I do.”
Dr. Halmer’s clinic was a small white building with faded trim and the smell of iodine and sawdust.
Strayboy lay on a padded table, wrapped in towels. A soft beep ticked beside him.
His breathing was shallow. His eyes fluttered open — then closed again.
“He stayed too long in the wet,” Halmer said. “Plus that limp of his — old break, maybe never set right.”
“Can you save him?” Catherine asked.
“Maybe. But he needs rest, meds, fluids. Quiet. Warmth.”
“Can I take him home?”
The vet raised a brow. “Sure. If you’re ready to let him be family.”
Catherine looked down at the animal who had saved her child — and then waited in the rain for forgiveness.
“I think he already is.”
That night, Lila lay curled beside the dog on a makeshift bed in the living room.
Strayboy rested his head near her side, tail thumping weakly whenever she shifted.
Catherine sat in a chair nearby, watching them both.
“I don’t know what to call him,” she said.
Lila yawned. “He already has a name.”
“Oh yeah?”
Lila smiled sleepily. “His name is Hero.”
Strayboy — now Hero — is safe, but barely.
Will he recover?
And is Catherine ready to open her home… and her heart?