One Last Time

The September air whipped through his hair as his paws stepped onto the stick-laden trail. He stopped, collar tag listlessly spinning by his chest. He took a breath in through his dried nose, and his old eyes peered through the green tint of his cataracts at the pines ahead.

The pathway meandered its way up the forested hill, taking all the same turns it always had. It had been the same when he was a bright-eyed puppy, when he was so full of wonder and vigor. Though he had changed, as had his family, the trail had always been a constant. He and his boy had walked it for his entire life, and he had watched his boy grow up on it.

He began walking forward, his old bones creaking and tired muscles straining. Paw after paw, he went forward, head held high. He glanced over at a weathered rock; it was there when his boy, many years ago, had brought him out to battle monsters for the first time. He was spry then, running around excitedly, barking at the beasts his boy confronted. He remembered his boy, paper hat on, clad in overalls, swinging a stick and yelling his warcries.

He kept moving up, taking the first bend. He thought of the time his boy, older then, played fetch with him. No matter how far the boy launched the ball, no matter what thickets it landed in, he would always return it to the boy. He was in the prime of his life then, past the clumsy hyperness of being a puppy and into the keenness of a dog in his element. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the ball, which had been lost to time.

He came upon a log, where he had seen the boy cry for the first time. The boy was in the throes of the preteen years, and had experienced the first major loss life would send. Though he rarely got to see Gramps, he knew the boy cared for him deeply. He had licked the salty tears off the boy's face, embracing the boy with his paws and love.

He continued. His body wanted to stop and rest, but he didn't. He eventually came upon the carving on the dead pine; it read, "C+B", encased in a crudely cut heart. That was the first time the boy had brought someone else with them, a sweet girl. He didn't mind following the boy and the girl then. They both gave him love, and he was happy to watch the boy laugh and hold hands. The joy the boy felt, he felt too.

He squinted at the carving, seeing the fresher slash marks through it. He had been with the boy then too. The girl was gone, the boy's heart was torn. The boy was not just sad then, but angry, too. He had whimpered softly as the boy cursed the girl's name, a flurry of frustration from a testosterone-pumped teenager. By then, he had matured, his own days of glory past, but he was still far from elderly. He had not seen the boy so upset, and he had grown too mellow to stop the boy's fit. It was the first time the boy cursed at him, too, telling him to leave him alone. It hurt.

He had forgiven the boy, though; he knew the boy would heal, and return to his loving disposition. He rounded the top of the hill, finding the familiar clearing. It was the end of the trail. It had always been there, though the boy only had taken him this far on occasions, when especially somber or contemplative. It was here the boy would stop and sit with him, as he laid his head in the boy's lap, and stroked his fur. As the boy got older, the frequency of this increased. But as he got older, the boy, fearing to strain him too much, ceased. In fact, the boy had not taken him on the trail in a long time, content to pet him on the carpet of the house and cushion of the couch.

He did not resent the boy for this; he was old, and it was hard for him to make it up the trail. It hurt his joints, and sapped his energy. The boy still loved him, of course, and showed him the same care in the comfort of their home.

But he was in the twilight of his life, and could feel the call coming from the other side. He had to make this trek, which had been such a staple of his life, one more time. And, for the first time, without the boy. He was compelled to do this final journey alone.

He gazed up at the treetops, and looked over the edge into the hills below. He took in the rocks, sedentary as ever, the flowers, as they swayed in the breeze. He came to the center of the clearing, his weary body coming to a stop. He felt the pull of drowsiness on his limbs and eyes, and slowly lowered himself onto the pine needles that coated the clearing. He finally set his head down, this time not on the boy's lap but on the ground. His tail, which had been wagging lethargically, slowed itself to a stop. Every blink, his eyes opened less and less. His vision went fuzzy, and eventually dark, his lids unable to open anymore. He could still feel the wind blowing past his ears, and the sun shining on his back. But, gradually, the sensations began to fade. As he started to slip into eternal slumber, he heard a faint, but familiar, voice calling his name from the bottom of the trail. It was the boy's. As he drew his final breath, he pictured the boy, one last time.