Dead Man's Dog

The pool was empty when I arrived at midnight. Good. I didn't want an audience for this — standing at the edge of my dead husband's childhood home, preparing to tell his dog that Mark wasn't coming back.

Buster, an aging golden retriever with hips that clicked when he walked, appeared at the sliding glass door. His tail gave a single, cautious thump against the frame. He knew. Dogs always know.

"Hey, buddy," I whispered, and the word cracked in my throat like something fragile.

I'd spent three months avoiding this house. Three months letting Mark's sister handle Buster's care, his vet appointments, his prescription diet. Three months pretending that if I didn't see this house, didn't see this dog, then maybe Mark's death would feel less permanent. Less real.

Buster lumbered down the pool steps, his paws clicking on the concrete, and pressed his warm side against my leg. His fur smelled like old carpet and the particular grief of animals who wait for people who never return.

"I'm sorry," I said to the dark water. "I should have come sooner."

Mark had taught Buster to swimming in this pool when the dog was a puppy — thrown him in, actually, because that's how Mark was, all force and conviction and zero patience for fear. Buster had learned. They both had. Mark learned to swim through depression the same way: just kept moving until something held him up.

I hadn't learned that lesson yet. Three months after the funeral, I was still treading water, still waiting for someone to pull me out.

Buster whined, a low sound that vibrated against my shin, and I realized I was crying.

"Okay," I said. "Okay."

I stepped into the pool fully clothed. The water was shocking cold, exactly what I needed. Buster barked — sharp, surprised — then scrambled in after me, paddling with that awkward determination old dogs have. We swam together in the dark, two survivors who couldn't save the person who'd taught us both how to stay afloat.