The Dog Who Knew

Margaret stood in the kitchen, scraping burnt spinach into the trash while the dog watched from the doorway. Barnaby—a golden retriever with eyes the color of cognac—had been Richard's pride and joy, a gift for their fifth anniversary. Now, three years after Richard left for a younger woman, Barnaby was hers. Or she was his. She wasn't sure which anymore.

The cable box blinked 3:14 AM. She'd given up on sleep weeks ago, finding comfort in the rhythm of infomercials and reruns of shows they'd watched together, curled on this same couch while Barnaby snored between them like a furry, contented wall.

"You're judging me," she told the dog. He thumped his tail once, then rested his chin on his paws.

Margaret had always hated spinach. Richard had insisted it was good for her, had made salads with tender leaves and warm bacon dressing, had kissed her afterwards with that particular tenderness that made her believe in forever. Now she bought it weekly, forced herself to eat it, as if the bitterness could somehow summon him back.

The phone rang. Too late, or too early. She knew who it was.

"I can't do this anymore," Richard said. His voice was rough. "She doesn't understand. About the dog."

Barnaby lifted his head, ears perked.

"You gave him to me."

"I know. But Margaret—he was supposed to be ours. I thought—I thought I could move on. I thought new would be better. But new doesn't know that Barnaby howls when it rains, or that he—"

"Spins in circles before lying down," she finished softly.

Silence. Cable news murmured from the television, anchors predicting storms.

"The spinach," Richard said suddenly. "You always hated it."

"I eat it anyway."

"Why?"

Margaret looked at the dog, who was watching her with those ancient, patient eyes. "Because some things deserve to be kept alive. Even when they're bitter."

"I'm coming over," he said. "There's supposed to be rain."

Margaret hung up, turned off the television. The house went quiet. Barnaby stood, stretched, and trotted to the door, where he sat waiting, tail sweeping the floor like a metronome marking time she'd thought had stopped.

Outside, the first drops fell against the window. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. The dog began to howl, and this time, Margaret joined in.