The Last Walk

The air smells different today. Not bad. Not good. Just full as if the clouds pressed their faces against the ground in the night and left their breath behind for me to taste. It seeps through the crack under the door and curls into my nose before I even open my eyes.

I stretch, paws pushing against the blanket at the foot of her chair. Not her bed anymore. No. She sleeps here now, in the big soft chair in the corner, the one that smells of cloth and old sunshine and the faint sharp sting of the medicine man’s gloves.

She’s there, curled up small under the blanket that doesn’t quite reach her toes. Her hand dangles off the side of the chair, fingers curled toward the floor. I nose it gently. She stirs, not fully waking, and I catch the scent of yesterday still on her skin; tea leaves, the cream she rubs into her face, and the faint trace of rain from when she stood on the porch last night.

When she finally opens her eyes, she smiles, but it’s the kind that uses only half her face. “Morning, boy,” she says, voice scratchy.

I wag my tail once, twice, slow and steady, so she knows I’m listening. It takes her a while to stand. I know the way she moves now. It’s careful, like the floor might tilt if she’s too quick. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she walks to the kitchen. Her slippers make soft shuffling sounds, and I pad behind her, matching her pace.

The smell of the kitchen is layered: stale bread, yesterday’s soup, the faint metallic tang of the kettle she uses every morning. She fills my bowl first and I eat while she makes her tea.

The steam rises in twisting ribbons, carrying the scent of mint. She holds the mug close to her face and closes her eyes, breathing it in. I can feel the warmth of it from here. When she sets the mug down, she glances at the hook by the door. The leash hangs there, the one with my teeth marks from years ago.

For a moment, she just stares at it, the way she does when she’s thinking about something far away. Then she says, “Let’s go for a walk, huh?”

Her voice is soft. I don’t think she meant for me to hear the part of it that trembled. I go to the door, tail thumping. This is our ritual. She puts on her coat, always slower than I expect. Her fingers fumble with the buttons. She wraps a scarf around her neck, even though the air doesn’t bite yet.

The leash clicks onto my collar, a sound that’s lived in my bones since I was small. It’s heavier than usual or maybe I am. Before we step outside, she pauses, looking around the room like she’s memorizing it. Then she smiles at me again, the half-smile. “Ready, boy?”

I am always ready. Except today, I don’t just feel ready. I feel aware like the day is bigger than usual, stretching out in ways I can’t see yet. The door opens, and the air greets us all at once; cool, damp, and alive with smells. It slides into my nose and settles in my chest.

She steps out carefully, one hand on the doorframe, the other holding my leash. I wait until she steadies before we start. It’s an unspoken rule now. I don’t pull anymore, not since her steps became measured, each one chosen. We turn left, as we always do. The tree at the corner stands with its heavy arms leaning toward the road, its bark still dark from the rain. I stop at its roots, nose to the ground, and there it is - my own scent from yesterday, layered over the many days before.

We pass the fence where the cat lives. She’s there today, curled in a patch of sunlight that found its way through the clouds. Once, I would’ve lunged. The thrill of the chase lighting up my whole body. Now, I only watch, tail giving one slow wag. The cat watches back, eyes half-closed, her whiskers twitching like she knows something I don’t.

The road bends, and we follow it to the pond. The bench waits for us, slick with damp. We sit, her coat brushing against my side, and I lean into her warmth. She’s quiet, looking at the water, which ripples in lazy circles from a duck’s slow swim. The scent of the pond is strong of algae, mud, the faint metallic bite of the water itself. I smell the fish beneath, smell the sharp panic of a frog nearby.

Her hand rests on my neck, her thumb moving in slow strokes. I don’t know if she’s petting me for comfort or if she needs to feel me solid beside her. Maybe both. From here, I can see the field where she used to throw the ball. I can almost feel the stretch in my legs, the wind combing through my fur, her voice calling after me.

There was a day, a long time ago when she threw it so far, I thought I might never stop running. When I brought it back, she crouched down, arms wide, and I barreled into her, knocking her over. She laughed so loud the ducks scattered.

Today, the ball stays in her coat pocket. I see her fingers find it there, turning it over and over, like she’s checking to see if it’s still round. I nudge her hand with my nose, but she only smiles softly and keeps looking at the water.

The clouds shift, and a single beam of light lands on the pond. She notices it, too. Her shoulders drop, just a little, and for a moment, the weight she’s been carrying seems lighter. We stay until the ducks return, and then she says, “Come on, boy,” in that quiet voice that sounds like the space between heartbeats.

We rise together. Her steps are slower on the way back, but I match them, as I always do. We take the long way, past the hedge where the rabbits live. I catch their scent immediately; sharp, quick, alive. I don’t chase. Not today.

By the time we reach the porch, her breathing is uneven, and I can hear her heartbeat through the leash in my mouth as she holds the other end. She stands for a moment at the bottom step, looking at the door like she’s memorizing it. Then she lifts her eyes to mine, and I see something in them I don’t have a name for. Not sadness. Not fear. Something deeper.

She squeezes the leash handle once before stepping inside, and I follow, the air from outside still clinging to me. The inside air is different. Something I don’t know. It’s not food. Not the sharpness of the medicine man. It’s leather, and something faint and metallic, like the air before a storm.

It’s coming from the man in the living room. He stands when we enter. Tall, calm, hands loose at his sides. His clothes carry the outside with them - raindrops that never reached the ground, wind caught in the folds. I’ve never seen him here before, but the moment I catch his scent, a quiet thread of knowing tugs in my chest.

She lets go of the leash but doesn’t take off her coat. Her eyes stay on the man for only a second before she looks down at me. Her smile is small, but her hands are steady as they unclip the lead from my collar. “Go on,” she murmurs.

I don’t move. The man kneels, not close enough to touch me, and says something in a voice that stays low and soft. It’s the way people talk to calm frightened things but I’m not frightened.

She lowers herself to the floor beside me, her knees stiff, her movements careful. Her hands find my face, palms warm, fingers curling into the fur at my cheeks. She says my name, once, twice, again and again, as if she’s sewing it into the space between us so it can’t be lost.

Each time she says it, her voice catches, but she keeps going, like it’s the only word that matters. I lean into her touch. Her scent is strong here. It’s all the things that make her mine: tea leaves, rain, the wool of her scarf, the faint salt of her skin.

And under it, something I’ve been noticing for a while now is the quiet, slow fading of her strength. The man is closer now. I hear the faint shift of whatever’s inside the bag at his side. She doesn’t look at him, not really. Her gaze is locked to mine, her thumbs stroking just below my eyes.

“You’re a good boy,” she says. “My good, good boy.”

The words settle deep. They’ve always been true. I’ve always known they were true but today they feel heavier, like she’s making sure I never forget. She glances once at the man and nods. Her hand never leaves me. I don’t know the word for what’s about to happen, but I feel it. It’s in the air. It’s in the way she’s holding on, and the way her breathing has changed, slow and deliberate, like she’s matching it to mine.

Outside, a wind moves through the trees, bending the branches so they brush against the roof. Inside, the man’s bag opens with a quiet sound, and something small and sharp catches the light. I stay still. The man moves closer, but his steps are quiet, careful, as if he knows sudden movements would break something in the air between us.

I keep my eyes on her. Her hands are still on my face, and I can feel her pulse in her fingertips. It’s faster than usual, but steady enough to hold me there. She leans in until her forehead touches mine. Her breath is warm, carrying the faint mint of the tea she finished earlier, the same tea I’ve smelled every morning for as long as I can remember.

She whispers, “I’m sorry, boy,” and her voice trembles in a way I’ve only heard once before. That night the man with the loud voice left and didn’t come back.

Sorry for what? For being tired? For walking slower? For the short ball throws?

I nudge her cheek with my nose, the way I do when she forgets I’m here. She laughs once, just a breath of it and it lands between us like a small light in the dark. The man kneels beside us now. He doesn’t speak to me. He speaks to her. I don’t understand the words, but I know they are asking, Are you ready?

Her answer is not in words but in the way her hands tighten just slightly in my fur. I feel the prick of something gentle at my leg. It’s not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to make me notice. She keeps talking to me, low and steady, as if her voice is the only thing holding the world together.

Then, I realize. I understand. Because the air is still full, but the heaviness in it has shifted. Because my legs are tired, and the ache in my bones never quite leaves now. Because I want to dream of running across the field again, chasing the ball until my lungs burn, without the slow pull of my body holding me back.

Her tears fall onto my fur, warm and fast, and I taste the salt when I lick them away. I want her to know I’m not afraid. Not with her here. The room feels smaller now, like all the walls have leaned in to be closer.

The man’s voice murmurs something quiet, but it’s far away, behind the sound of her heartbeat and the rhythm of her breathing. She says my name again, but softer this time, almost like it’s just for me. “Good boy. My good, good boy.”

I close my eyes. Her scent is the last thing I hold onto - tea, rain, wool, skin - and the memory of her laugh rolling across the pond. The weight in my bones lifts, the air opens up, and the ground falls away beneath my paws. And I run.