Part 4 — The Storm and the Watchdog
It started with a shift in the wind.
Walter knew Montana weather didn’t ask permission.
One moment, sunshine skimmed the meadow. The next, clouds rolled in like bruises across the sky.
By late afternoon, the trees bent in the gusts.
Branches tapped at the windows like anxious fingers.
And Walter, out of habit, filled two pitchers with water and checked the flashlight drawer.
Barnie watched him from the living room rug.
He didn’t like the wind. His ears twitched with every thud on the roof, but he didn’t pace. Didn’t whine.
He simply stood up, turned once in place, and lay back down—facing the door.
When the power flickered, Walter lit two candles and set one near the mantle.
“Looks like we’ll be roughin’ it tonight, old boy.”
Barnie rose slowly, joints cracking just audibly enough to make Walter wince in empathy.
He came to sit at Walter’s feet, pressing his side lightly against the old man’s shin.
It wasn’t fear.
It was presence.
Even when thunder rolled low and long, Barnie didn’t flinch.
He just stared out into the darkened window, monkey toy beside him like a sentry’s badge.
Walter stood up to fetch the matches from the kitchen—and that’s when it happened.
A loud crack, sharp and fast, followed by the unmistakable sound of wood splitting.
A limb had come down. Heavy. Too close.
The power went out for good.
Walter froze.
He turned, reaching for his coat, heart thudding—not from panic, but from the weight of age and memory.
Six years ago, during a similar storm, he’d lost his wife. Not in the house. Not to the wind.
But to the silence that followed.
He remembered sitting alone in the dark, holding her old cardigan, feeling utterly useless.
But this time, something broke the silence.
A low bark. Just once.
Barnie had stood, stiff but steady, and positioned himself at the front door.
Head low. Shoulders forward.
He didn’t bark again.
He just waited—watching, guarding.
Walter didn’t move for a moment.
Then he walked over and sat beside him on the floor.
“No one’s out there,” he said gently, placing a hand on Barnie’s back. “But I appreciate the thought.”
Barnie turned and did something he hadn’t done before.
He placed his paw across Walter’s lap.
Then rested his head on the man’s knee.
They stayed like that for a while.
The wind roared. The trees groaned.
And inside the small cabin, two souls waited together—one having seen many storms, the other just finally learning what it meant to ride them out with someone by your side.
The monkey toy lay between them like a thread connecting old hurt and new trust.
Later, with the fire dimming and the wind finally retreating, Walter stood and stretched.
“I think you’ve got some watchdog in you after all,” he said.
Barnie didn’t answer, but his tail thumped once against the floorboards.
And when they turned in for the night, Barnie didn’t lie by the hearth.
He lay by the bedroom door.