Part 8: The Collar That Didn’t Belong
Pine Hollow, Kentucky – June 13th, 2021 – 9:03 AM
Sunday morning sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains as Hero lay snoring on the living room rug, one paw twitching as if chasing a dream.
Lila sat beside him, cross-legged in a princess nightgown, gently brushing the white fur on his chest with an old baby hairbrush.
“He smells like sunshine today,” she whispered.
Catherine, sitting nearby with a cooling cup of coffee, smiled faintly.
“He deserves a good day.”
Hero’s eyes fluttered open. His tail thumped once, slow but steady.
“He’s getting stronger,” Ruth said from the kitchen. She was scrambling eggs and humming something that sounded suspiciously like an old Dolly Parton song. “Another week, and he’ll be walking the yard again.”
“If he ever stops milking it,” Catherine said with a small grin.
As if in reply, Hero let out a long sigh and rolled onto his side with exaggerated effort, earning a burst of laughter from Lila.
That afternoon, Catherine decided to go through the last box of storage in the garage — the one she’d put off for nearly two years.
It was full of her late husband’s things.
Sweaters that still smelled like cedar. The flask he carried on fishing trips. The dog leash they’d bought for the puppy they never got around to adopting.
At the bottom, under a yellowed stack of utility bills and fishing magazines, was an old leather collar.
But not just any collar.
This one was different.
The tag was still attached.
It read: “Buddy. If found, call 931-602-7753.”
Catherine frowned.
She hadn’t seen that number before.
She looked closer.
The collar was not from their household.
She walked back into the house slowly, holding it in both hands like a fragile bird.
Ruth noticed first. “What’s that?”
“I think… it might’ve been his.”
She turned the tag over. On the back was a small engraving:
“See you soon, good boy.”
Catherine called the number. Her hands trembled as she dialed.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Click.
A man’s voice, cautious: “Hello?”
“Hi. I—this might sound strange. But… I found your dog’s collar. I think… I think he may be with me now.”
Silence on the other end.
Then: “Is his name Buddy?”
“He didn’t have a name when we found him. We… we call him Hero.”
A long exhale. “God. Hero.”
His name was Daniel Collins, a 60-year-old retired fireman from Gallatin, Tennessee.
Buddy had run off during a thunderstorm six months ago, while Daniel was recovering from surgery.
He searched for weeks. Put up flyers. Drove as far as Bowling Green.
Then, slowly, he’d given up. People told him the dog probably found a farm or wandered into the woods. But he’d never stopped leaving a bowl by the back door.
“He’s been through so much,” Catherine said. “We almost lost him twice.”
Daniel’s voice cracked. “He saved my grandson from a house fire three years ago. Stood between him and the flames until I could get him out. That dog… he doesn’t run from pain.”
Catherine swallowed hard.
“He found us after he saved my daughter from drowning.”
Another pause.
“Maybe,” Daniel said quietly, “he’s just doing what he was born to do.”
When Catherine hung up, she sat on the porch step and stared out at the yard.
The question loomed like a storm cloud.
Do I give him back?
That night, she told Ruth everything.
Ruth sat quietly beside her, nursing a mug of tea, listening.
“He was loved,” Catherine said. “Really loved. This Daniel — he was his person. His whole world.”
“And now?”
“Now… he’s Lila’s. And mine.”
Ruth looked at her over the rim of her mug. “So what’s the right thing to do?”
Catherine didn’t answer.
She didn’t sleep that night either.
At breakfast, Catherine sat across from Lila, unsure how to start.
“Baby,” she said gently. “You know how Hero didn’t have a name when we found him?”
Lila looked up, suspicious. “He had a name. I picked it.”
“I know. But… I found out he had another name before. A name from another family.”
Lila’s lower lip trembled. “Does that mean he has to leave?”
Catherine reached across the table and took her hand. “I don’t know yet. But I promise, whatever happens, it’ll be okay. We’ll do what’s best for him.”
“But I’m best for him,” Lila whispered.
Catherine squeezed her hand. “I think he knows that too.”
By midmorning, Hero was outside in the yard — supervised, wrapped in a blanket, lying on a patch of warm grass.
A car pulled up at the end of the drive. Dust trailed behind it like a question mark.
Daniel Collins stepped out slowly.
Tall, broad-shouldered, gray hair pulled into a short ponytail. His hands shook as he walked toward the porch.
Hero didn’t bark.
But he lifted his head.
Catherine stepped onto the lawn.
“You must be Daniel.”
He nodded once. His eyes were already red.
And then he saw the dog.
“Buddy,” he whispered.
Hero’s ears twitched.
Then, carefully, shakily — he stood.
Took one step.
Then another.
Then collapsed gently into the man’s arms.
Daniel held him for a long time. Whispered into his fur. Pressed his forehead to Hero’s head like a prayer.
Lila watched from the porch steps, arms wrapped around her bunny.
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said quietly.
“For what?”
“For making him wait so long.”
Daniel shook his head. “He found exactly where he needed to be.”
Hero has a past — a man who loved him, and a life before.
But where does he belong now?
And who will make the final choice: the man who raised him… or the girl he saved?