Part 7: The Ache Beneath the Quiet
Scout didn’t get up the next morning.
It wasn’t like him.
Marlene noticed it first thing—he usually rose with the sun, circling the yard before the coffee even brewed. But today, he stayed curled tight beside the hearth, unmoving. Lily and Patch nosed at him playfully, pawing his ears, tugging at the fur on his neck.
He didn’t growl. Didn’t swat. Didn’t even open his eyes.
“Scout?” Marlene said softly.
He gave a quiet whimper. Low. Tired.
Marlene crouched next to him and laid a hand on his side. He was warm. Too warm.
“Not today,” she whispered. “Please, not today.”
Doc Harris came as soon as he could, arriving with a vet bag slung over his shoulder and his jacket still half-buttoned. He knelt by Scout without speaking.
Temperature. Elevated. Gums. Pale.
“Could be infection,” he muttered. “Maybe from the old surgery site. Or maybe something else. At his age… he’s no puppy.”
Marlene stood by the window, arms crossed tight across her chest.
She didn’t speak until Doc finished his injection.
“What’s the worst-case?” she asked.
He looked up, face heavy. “Kidney strain. Or immune response from overcompensating while healing. He’s been carrying more than just that leg.”
She nodded slowly. “And the best-case?”
“He just needs rest. Antibiotics. Fluids. But he’s got to stay warm. Still.”
Marlene managed a thin smile. “Stillness was never his strong suit.”
That night, Scout lay on the flannel quilt near the fire, breathing slow and shallow. The others gathered around him like satellites.
Benny wouldn’t stop pacing, whining now and then but never straying far.
Lily curled under Scout’s chin, her tiny body rising and falling with each of his labored breaths.
Patch sat like a soldier, tail across his paws, staring at the door as if he could guard the house in Scout’s place.
And Nudge, the piglet with the green bandage finally removed, hobbled up to Scout’s belly and settled in—just like the first time.
Marlene lit a second oil lamp. Then a third. She needed the room brighter than her thoughts.
It was nearly midnight when the first sharp pain hit her.
A deep cramp beneath her ribs, curling up through her shoulder and into her jaw. She gasped, hand flying to her chest, and steadied herself on the counter.
Not now.
She pressed her palm against the sink’s edge and breathed through it, blinking spots from her vision.
Scout stirred, eyes half-lidded, but didn’t rise.
She didn’t tell the animals. Didn’t call anyone. Just took a couple aspirin, poured a glass of water, and sat in the rocking chair with a blanket pulled high.
“I’m fine,” she whispered to the room. “You just keep breathing. I’ve got the rest.”
In the morning, the pain had dulled but not left.
She called Doc Harris again—not for Scout this time, but for herself.
“Just come by when you’re done with your rounds,” she said.
He must’ve heard it in her voice. He didn’t argue.
Scout didn’t eat that morning.
Marlene spooned broth toward his muzzle. He turned his head.
She sat beside him and spoke softly. “Remember the trailer park? The fire? The blanket you pulled through the window? That kid lived. And his sister found us. She saw you.”
No reaction.
She stroked his scarred ear. “You don’t have to prove anything now. You’re allowed to rest. Even heroes get tired.”
His eyes fluttered. He exhaled.
And Lily nuzzled closer, licking the edge of his mouth, gentle as breath.
Doc Harris arrived late afternoon.
He checked Scout’s vitals, adjusted the blanket, then turned to Marlene. “He’s stable. But this isn’t a fever. This is shutdown.”
Her breath caught.
“You mean—?”
“He’s not in pain. He’s not afraid. But his body’s pulling back. Like it’s finally convinced it can stop.”
She looked at Scout, lying so still.
“He’s not done,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”
Doc looked at her a long moment. “And you?”
She didn’t answer.
After he left, she finally let herself cry.
Not loud. Not messy. Just slow, silent tears falling onto her lap as she sat in the rocking chair.
She looked around the room—at the basket, the flannel quilt, the muddy pawprints on the floor, the scratches on the back door.
A life. Built one scar at a time.
She whispered aloud, “I don’t want to do this without you, Scout.”
The room didn’t answer.
But one tail thumped.
Once.
Then again.
Scout’s eyes opened—narrow slits. But open.
Marlene froze.
Then stood.
She crossed to him, dropped to her knees, and laid her forehead gently against his.
“You stubborn mutt,” she breathed.
His tail wagged once more.
That night, she slept beside him. Right there on the floor. Her back ached, her hips screamed, and her heart beat harder than it should’ve.
But she didn’t move.
And neither did he.