🔹 PART 9 – The Walk That Wasn’t Routine
It was Sunday morning again. Late spring. The kind of morning that smelled like cut grass and coffee grounds. A soft breeze brushed through the cracked front window, carrying with it the chirp of birds and the faint bark of a dog four houses down.
Frank sat at the edge of his bed, tying his shoes. Waffles waited near the door, tail thumping slowly against the wall, his favorite blue bandana freshly tied around his neck.
“C’mon,” Frank said, grabbing the leash. “Let’s go do our rounds.”
By now, their walks had become a neighborhood ritual.
Down the block to Marcus’ porch, where the boy would be sitting with a piece of toast and a crooked smile. Then past Annie Caruso’s flowerbeds — she always saved them a biscuit or two wrapped in a napkin. Then around the corner, where the new family with twin toddlers would wave from their porch swing like Frank and Waffles were part of the morning parade.
Today, though, the rhythm was off.
Frank noticed it by the time they reached the elm at the end of the street. Waffles wasn’t just limping — he was dragging that back paw a little. Not crying. Not stopping. But something in his gait had changed. Slower. Like walking through mud no one else could see.
Frank knelt down and ran a hand along his side.
“Hey now,” he said gently. “You alright, buddy?”
Waffles leaned into the touch but didn’t wag his tail.
Frank didn’t panic.
He just turned them around early.
Back home, he laid Waffles on the porch rug and brought out a cold bowl of water. The dog drank, but not much. Then laid his head down and closed his eyes.
“Too much today?” Frank whispered. “Me too.”
He sat beside him, not saying anything else for a while. Let the dog rest his head on Frank’s foot. Let the wind move around them. Let the day slow down.
And then the phone rang.
It was Evan.
“Hey,” he said. “I just got off the phone with that Newark Mutual lady. She said you might be able to convert Mom’s old policy into something that still pays out monthly.”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “How’d you get her number?”
“I saw it on the fridge when I came by last week. Hope that’s okay.”
Frank chuckled. “You always did have a way of skipping steps.”
Evan paused.
“Dad, I’ve been looking into other stuff too. Like long-term care coverage. Supplemental plans. Things I should’ve helped you with sooner.”
Frank looked down at Waffles, whose chest rose and fell in slow rhythm.
“Better late than never,” he said quietly.
Evan hesitated. Then: “Can I come by later? I want to show you something.”
Frank agreed, and they hung up.
—
By 3:00 p.m., Evan was on the porch with his laptop open, Waffles resting against his leg.
He clicked through tabs and documents while Frank squinted at the screen.
“There’s a plan here,” Evan said, “for final expenses. But also something that gives payouts while you’re still alive — for things like home repairs, vet care, even small medical emergencies. It’s not flashy. But it’s honest.”
Frank blinked. “Since when do you care about honest over flashy?”
Evan gave a half-smile. “Since I realized dignity is sometimes wrapped in duct tape and old jackets.”
Frank snorted.
Evan reached into his bag and pulled out a new collar — deep blue, leather, stitched with gold thread.
“I had this made,” he said. “Took your advice. Phone number’s updated. And…” He turned the collar over. “Check the tag.”
Frank read it aloud:
Waffles DeSantis
Property of Frank & Evan
If found, please return him — or stay for dinner.
Frank stared at it for a long second.
Then nodded once.
“Alright,” he said, voice rough. “Now you’re just showing off.”
They slipped the collar onto the sleeping dog’s neck together. Waffles stirred, blinked up at them, then closed his eyes again.
Evan leaned back in his chair. “You ever think,” he said slowly, “that the things we throw out too soon are the same things we’ll spend years trying to find again?”
Frank didn’t answer at first.
Then he picked up a pebble from the porch and rolled it between his fingers.
“Every man I ever worked with had something they wished they’d kept,” he said. “A letter. A voice. A dog. A chance.”
Evan looked over.
“What about you?”
Frank looked down at Waffles.
“Only thing I ever threw out too soon,” he said softly, “was time.”
That evening, Frank took a photo.
Not a fancy one. Just an old disposable camera from the drawer, clicked open and aimed at the porch.
In the frame: Evan, reading something on his phone. Waffles, snoring softly. The plaque from the sanitation department, propped in the window behind them.
It wasn’t for social media.
It wasn’t to post or prove.
It was to remember.
Because the real stuff — the heart stuff — never comes back unless you hold onto it. Unless you name it. Frame it. Say: This mattered.
After Evan left, Frank stood alone for a while in the doorway.
He looked at the street, empty now.
No kids riding bikes. No dogs barking.
Just the orange glow of dusk washing over the houses, the sidewalk, and his own wrinkled hands gripping the doorframe.
Inside, Waffles let out a small groan in his sleep.
Frank turned off the porch light, closed the door gently, and whispered into the dark:
“Good boy.”