Part 5 — The Rocking Chair Pact
Autumn rolled into Kansas quietly, the way it always did—summer heat loosening its grip, the air smelling faintly of dry corn stalks and wood smoke. Leaves browned early that year, curling like old pages.
Clover moved slower.
Mari noticed it first on the path to the mailbox. He trailed behind instead of leading, his paws dragging ever so slightly in the gravel. His breath came heavier when he lay down, and sometimes, in the mornings, he hesitated before standing, as if testing whether his legs would obey.
“Grandma,” Mari whispered one evening as they rocked on the porch, “do you think Clover’s tired?”
Evelyn looked down at the dog, who lay stretched at her feet, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. She traced his bent ear with her toe. “He’s carried more than his share. Dogs grow weary quicker than people. That’s the unfairness of it.”
Mari’s throat tightened. “But he’s all we’ve got.”
Evelyn’s eyes met hers, glistening in the lantern glow. “Then we’ll make his last season the gentlest one.”
The next morning, Clover struggled to climb the porch steps. His back legs wobbled, and he paused halfway, panting, before mustering the strength to finish. Evelyn watched from her rocking chair, her lips pressed tight.
“He’s fading,” she said softly. “I can feel it.”
Mari knelt beside Clover, rubbing his chest. His eyes, though tired, still carried the same steady light, as if telling her, Don’t worry, child. I’ll go when it’s time.
But Mari wasn’t ready to hear it.
Later that week, Evelyn had one of her fogged days. She wandered into the barn calling for Daisy, insisting the collie must be herding the chickens. Mari tried to guide her back, but Evelyn grew frustrated.
“Why are you always telling me no? Daisy’s mine—I know she’s here!”
Her voice cracked into a sob, her shoulders trembling. Mari wrapped her arms around her. “She’s here in your stories, Grandma. She never left.”
Evelyn leaned into her, exhausted. “But I want the real thing, Mari. I want to bury my face in her fur. I want to hear her bark again.”
Clover shuffled forward then, pressing his muzzle against Evelyn’s hand. She blinked, startled, then stroked his head. “Ah. There you are, old boy. You’ll have to stand in for all the others.”
Mari wiped her tears quietly. She realized then how much Clover bore—not just Evelyn’s loneliness, but the weight of every memory slipping away.
One crisp October afternoon, Mari decided they should take Clover to the field behind the house. It had been weeks since he’d gone farther than the yard. She packed a blanket, an apple for her grandmother, and some scraps of bacon for Clover.
They walked slowly, Evelyn leaning on Mari’s arm, Clover trailing close behind. The field stretched golden and brittle, the stalks whispering in the breeze. When they reached the clearing, Mari spread the blanket, and they all sat together, bathed in the low sun.
Evelyn’s eyes softened. “I used to bring your grandfather here after harvest. We’d sit just like this, listening to the wind. Clover’s ears remind me of those days—always bent toward the breeze.”
Clover lay between them, chewing the bacon slowly, savoring it. Afterward he rested his head on Evelyn’s lap, sighing contentedly.
Mari studied him, memorizing everything—the way his fur caught the light, the pattern of white on his muzzle, the slow thump of his tail when Evelyn scratched his chin. She wanted to burn the image into her mind so she could carry it forever.
“Do you think dogs know when it’s their time?” she asked.
Evelyn’s hand paused. “I think they do. And I think they try to prepare us. Clover’s telling us now, in his own way.”
Mari shook her head fiercely. “I don’t want him to go.”
Evelyn pulled her close, pressing her lips to Mari’s hair. “None of us do, child. That’s why memory matters. It doesn’t stop the leaving, but it keeps the love from running too far.”
That night, Clover whimpered in his sleep. He kicked his back legs as though running, his chest rising rapidly. Evelyn reached down from her rocking chair, laying her hand gently on his side.
“Dreaming,” she whispered. “Maybe he’s chasing the ones who went ahead.”
Mari closed her eyes, imagining Jack, Daisy, Rusty, Bonnie, Scout—all waiting somewhere beyond, their tails wagging. The thought comforted and crushed her all at once.
The decline came quickly after that. Clover stopped climbing onto the porch, choosing instead to sleep in the grass below. He ate less, drank slowly, moved rarely. Mari stayed beside him for hours, stroking his fur, whispering stories into his ear.
Evelyn, even in her fog, never forgot to reach for him. Some days she called him by another dog’s name—Rusty or Jack—but Clover never minded. He pressed close anyway, as if to say, I’ll be whoever you need me to be.
One evening, Evelyn spoke suddenly, her voice clearer than it had been in weeks. “Mari, the time is near.”
Mari froze. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s truth,” Evelyn said gently. “Look at him. He’s ready. Dogs know when to let go, and so must we.”
Mari buried her face in Clover’s fur, the tears coming hot and unbidden. “But how do I live without him?”
Evelyn stroked her granddaughter’s back. “You live by remembering. You carry his name on your tongue, the way I carried Jack’s. That’s the pact, Mari. You made it with me, but you’ll keep it for him too.”
Clover opened his eyes then, meeting Mari’s gaze. In them she saw no fear, only love—deep, patient, eternal.
That night was restless. Evelyn dozed in her chair, murmuring names of long-gone dogs, her hand twitching as if stroking them in dreams. Mari sat on the porch steps beside Clover, her notebook in her lap. She wrote until her hand cramped, filling the pages with every detail she could recall about him:
The bent ear.
The wheat-colored fur.
The way he waits at the gate.
The sigh he gives before sleep.
The sound of his paws on the porch boards.
She wrote until her tears smudged the ink.
Clover rested his head on her knee, his breathing shallow but steady. Mari pressed her cheek to his fur and whispered, “I won’t let you fade, Clover. Not ever.”
The lantern flame flickered low, the rocking chair creaked, and Evelyn murmured in her sleep.
The night held them all—the fading dog, the fading woman, and the child who had become their keeper.
The following morning dawned still and gray. Clover didn’t rise when Mari opened the door. He blinked at her, tail sweeping weakly against the porch.
Evelyn appeared behind her, leaning on the doorframe, eyes soft with knowing. “It’s today.”
Mari knelt, gathering Clover into her lap, though he was heavy and awkward. She cradled him anyway, whispering his name again and again. Evelyn lowered herself carefully into her rocking chair, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
“Speak his name, Mari. Don’t let it slip.”
Mari did, over and over, until her throat was raw. “Clover, Clover, Clover…”
Clover’s eyes never left hers. He gave one final sigh, a sound that was almost relief, almost release. And then—stillness.
The porch was silent except for the faint creak of Evelyn’s rocking chair.
Mari clutched him tighter, sobbing into his fur. Evelyn reached out, laying her hand gently on Mari’s shoulder.
“Shh, child,” she whispered. “He’s only gone where the others wait. And we’ll remember him, just like we promised.”
The brass dog tag in Mari’s pocket felt heavier than ever. She pressed it to her heart, the words ringing in her mind like a vow sealed forever:
Memory is the leash that keeps love from running too far.
Part 6 — The Rocking Chair Pact
The house felt wrong without the sound of Clover’s paws.
For years, Evelyn Mae Cartwright had grown used to the rhythm—the shuffle of nails on porch boards, the sigh at the base of her rocking chair, the thump of a tail against the floorboards whenever Mari entered the room. Now there was only silence, a silence so thick Mari sometimes pressed her hands to her ears, half-expecting to hear him again.
Evelyn sat on the porch for hours after they buried him beneath the oak tree. She faced west, watching the sun dip low, her rocking chair squealing its old protest. Sometimes she whispered, “Good boy,” as though Clover still lay at her feet.
Mari tried to keep busy. She cooked, swept, fed the barn cats, wrote in her notebook until the ink smudged. But grief hung on her like a wet coat—heavy, unshakable.
At night she dreamt of Clover’s last breath, the way his eyes had stayed on hers until the very end. She woke with his name on her lips, clutching the brass tag in her fist until her fingers ached.
Evelyn’s mind began slipping faster after Clover’s death. It was as if the dog had been holding the threads together, and without him, the weave unraveled.
One morning, Mari found her grandmother wandering the yard in her nightgown, calling for Walter. Another day, she poured two cups of coffee and set one at the empty end of the table, humming softly as if expecting company.
Mari didn’t correct her as often now. It only made Evelyn anxious, made her cry. Instead, she wrote everything down in her notebook, holding the memories steady for both of them.
Still, it hurt.
“Grandma,” she whispered one evening, “how do I keep my promise if you forget everything?”
Evelyn looked at her with cloudy eyes. “What promise, child?”
“The rocking chair pact.”
Evelyn tilted her head, puzzled. “Did we make one?”
Mari swallowed her tears. “Yes. About Clover. About remembering.”
Her grandmother’s eyes softened, though Mari could tell she didn’t understand. “Well,” Evelyn said, rocking slowly, “I trust you to keep it.”
Mari nodded, even as her chest ached. “I will. I promise.”
The days blurred together. The farmhouse grew colder as winter edged in, and Mari spent more time by the fire, notebook on her lap. She filled page after page with Evelyn’s stories—Jack and the war, Daisy and the chickens, Rusty in the barn, Bonnie and her hymns to the moon, Scout and his stolen laundry, Clover with his mismatched ears.
When she read them back aloud, Evelyn sometimes smiled faintly, as if catching glimpses of a world she half-recognized. Other times she simply nodded, murmuring, “That sounds nice,” as though the stories belonged to someone else.
Clover’s absence was everywhere. His bed by the door sat empty, his bowl gathering dust in the corner. Mari couldn’t bring herself to move them. She wanted the house to remember him, even if Evelyn could not.
One late afternoon, the wind carried the smell of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s farm. Evelyn sat wrapped in a quilt on the porch, her Bible resting in her lap. Mari sat beside her, notebook open, pen ready.
“Tell me about Jack again,” Mari said gently.
Evelyn’s eyes grew distant. “Jack…” She frowned, tapping her fingers on the Bible. “He was… a man, wasn’t he? A neighbor?”
“No, Grandma. Jack was the shepherd. The war dog.”
“Oh.” Evelyn smiled faintly. “Yes. Jack. He was a good boy.” Her gaze drifted back to the fields. “But didn’t he come home?”
Mari’s throat tightened. “No. Just his tag.” She pulled it from her pocket, pressing the brass into Evelyn’s hand.
Evelyn turned it over, studying the worn letters. For a brief moment, her face cleared. “Yes. Jack. I remember now. He carried messages through the smoke.”
Her voice grew strong, almost young again. “He was brave.”
Mari nodded quickly, afraid to break the spell. “Yes. Very brave.”
Then the light faded from Evelyn’s eyes. She placed the tag back into Mari’s hand, shaking her head. “I don’t know why I keep forgetting such things.”
Mari closed her fist around the tag. “That’s why I remember for both of us.”
Evelyn reached over, squeezing her hand weakly. “Good girl.”
Winter settled hard that year. Snow dusted the farmhouse roof, the fields lay barren, and the porch creaked beneath the weight of frost. Evelyn grew frailer, her steps slower, her hands unsteady.
Mari cared for her as best she could—stoking fires, cooking stews, reminding her gently of who she was, where she was. At times, Evelyn seemed to slip into another life entirely, asking after Hazel, after her parents, after Walter. Mari answered softly, sometimes truthfully, sometimes kindly, always with love.
One evening, Evelyn reached for Mari’s hand. “Child,” she whispered, “will you tell me a story? One about the dog with the funny ear.”
Mari smiled through her tears. “Clover.”
“Yes, Clover. Tell me about him.”
Mari closed her eyes, picturing the dog sprawled across the porch, mismatched ears twitching in the wind. She spoke softly, weaving memory into words: “He came to us in a storm. Skinny and soaked, hiding under the porch. You dried him with Grandpa’s flannel shirt. He wagged his tail like he already knew he belonged here.”
Evelyn chuckled faintly. “Yes… that sounds right.”
Mari continued, voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “He waited for you every evening by the gate. He slept on his back with his paws in the air. He carried you through the quiet after Grandpa passed.”
Evelyn’s eyes closed, her breathing slow. “Good boy,” she murmured.
Mari held her hand tightly. “Yes. The best.”
When Mari finally slept that night, she dreamed again of the leashes—dozens of glowing lines stretching across the field. But this time Clover’s leash was gone, only the faint shimmer of where it had been remained. She ran her hands over the empty space, sobbing, until she felt another tug.
It wasn’t Clover’s leash anymore—it was Evelyn’s. And it was fraying.
Mari woke with a start, the brass tag warm in her palm. She pressed it to her heart, whispering fiercely into the dark, “I won’t let go. Not of you, not of her. I promise.”
The weeks passed. Evelyn drifted further, sometimes forgetting Mari’s name, sometimes mistaking her for Hazel or her own mother. But she never stopped reaching for Clover, even in dreams.
“Clover, come,” she whispered one night, her hands patting the empty quilt beside her. Mari wept quietly from the doorway, clutching the notebook to her chest.
By spring, Evelyn no longer read her Bible—her eyes were too tired, her mind too clouded. Instead, Mari read aloud to her. Sometimes the Psalms. Sometimes the dog stories she had written down.
One afternoon, as the wind carried the scent of thawing earth, Mari read softly from her notebook:
“Clover was the dog who carried Grandma through the quiet. He never let her sit alone, never let her lose herself completely. He was the last, and maybe the greatest, because he reminded her that love does not fade, even when memory does.”
Evelyn’s lips curved faintly. Her voice, no more than a breath, answered, “Yes. Love does not fade.”
Mari shut the notebook, her throat aching. She leaned close and whispered, “That’s the pact, Grandma. And I’ll keep it.”
Evelyn smiled, her eyes already drifting shut. “Good girl,” she murmured again.
The rocking chair creaked in the wind outside, empty now, but still moving, as if Clover’s spirit had taken one last seat to keep watch.
Mari sat by her grandmother’s side, holding her hand, her notebook, and the brass tag—keeper of it all.