The Dog Who Never Stopped Waiting

And repetition, she learned, can feel like accusation.

One winter morning, snow piled thick against the edges of the garden path. The world outside was muted, almost erased.

She stood at the window holding a mug of tea she never drank.

Below, Corporal sat in the same place as always.

Snow collecting on his back.

Still facing the road.

Still waiting.

Her mother once told her softly, “Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

She had laughed at that then.

Not unkindly.