Right beside Caleb’s headstone.
Not near it. Beside it. Pressed against the stone the way a dog lies against someone’s leg.
When I knelt down, he moved a few feet away. But he didn’t leave.
I set the flowers down and glanced at him.
“Did you know him?” I asked quietly.
He tilted his head.
And I laughed. Out loud. In a cemetery.
It was the first time in months anything in that place had made me want to smile.
After that, I saw him almost every Sunday. Sometimes curled up in the grass. Sometimes sitting upright like a guard. Sometimes asleep with his nose tucked between his paws, right where Caleb’s name was carved.
He never begged. He never followed me. He never asked for anything.
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