Part 8 — The Gift That Waited Too
Amy came back three days later.
This time, no leash.
Just a small box wrapped in brown paper, edges softened like it had traveled a long road.
Walter heard her car before he saw it—an old Subaru, tires crunching slow across the gravel.
He rose from the porch rocker, waved once, and met her halfway down the walk.
“I hope this wasn’t overstepping,” she said, holding out the box.
“I found it in a crate from my mom’s garage last summer. I almost threw it out.”
Walter took the package with both hands.
It was light, like dried leaves or an old letter.
Inside was a toy squirrel.
Faded tan, seams loose at the belly, eyes long gone.
But unmistakably loved.
“I thought maybe he’d remember,” Amy said, almost embarrassed.
Walter didn’t speak.
He simply nodded once and motioned her toward the house.
Barnie was lying by the fireplace, his monkey beside him as always.
He didn’t get up when they entered, but his eyes lifted, calm and curious.
Amy knelt, unwrapped the squirrel, and placed it on the floor between them.
Barnie blinked.
Sniffed once.
Then—without ceremony—he nudged the monkey aside and pulled the squirrel into his paws.
Amy gasped softly. Covered her mouth.
Walter turned away.
Later that evening, Amy sat on the porch steps with Walter, mug of tea in hand.
“He remembered,” she said.
Walter nodded slowly.
“Dogs do. They remember the good, and forgive the rest.”
She looked toward the screen door, where Barnie lay in the hallway, squirrel tucked under his chin.
“Do you think he’s ready to go?” she asked, gently.
Walter didn’t answer for a long time.
When he did, his voice was the softest it had ever been.
“I think,” he said, “he’s finally whole again.”
That night, Walter added a few more lines to his notebook.
“Refused breakfast again.”
“Walked halfway to the gate, then sat.”
“Slept all afternoon. Breathing shallow, but peaceful.”
He closed the book.
Set it beside his chair.
And sat down on the floor beside Barnie.
The old dog stirred.
Just enough to roll slightly toward Walter, the squirrel and monkey nestled between them like old war medals.
Walter laid a hand across Barnie’s ribcage and waited until they were breathing in sync.
Outside, the wind had picked up again.
Not cruelly. Just a whisper against the shutters, like the earth sighing.
Walter didn’t move.
He wasn’t thinking about loss.
He was thinking about return—how some things find their way back in the end.
A toy squirrel.
A name long forgotten.
A dog who waited.
And a man who no longer had to.