I thought I was giving an old dog a peaceful place to spend his final years.
Instead, he spent every sunrise searching for someone he’d never stopped missing.
The first morning I noticed, I was watering flowers in my back garden just after dawn.
The clock on the patio wall read 6:48.
The old dog wandered to the far corner near the weathered oak fence, stopped, and began digging.
Not frantically.
Not like a dog chasing a mole or burying a toy.
Slowly.
Almost carefully.
Four strokes with one paw.
Four with the other.
Then he paused.
When the hole reached about the length of his body, he simply stood beside it, staring quietly into the earth.
The breeze lifted the grey fur around his muzzle.
He didn’t move.
I called his name.
