🔹 Part 7 – The Ride to the Ridge Vet
Tom hadn’t driven the truck in a month.
The old Ford coughed when he turned the key, stuttered once, then roared awake like it was answering an old call. The bench seat creaked beneath his weight, and the air still smelled faintly of motor oil, pine needles, and the peppermint Lillian used to tuck in the glovebox. He hadn’t cleaned it out. Couldn’t.
Sparky lay bundled on the passenger side, half-wrapped in Lillian’s flannel shirt, his cloudy eyes fluttering open and closed with every bump in the gravel road. He didn’t whine. Didn’t stir much. But every so often, Tom would reach over and feel a faint thump of his chest—still alive. Still here.
The sun hadn’t quite burned through the morning haze yet. Lewisburg sat quiet in the folds of the West Virginia hills, its downtown storefronts still asleep behind drawn shades and chalkboard signs promising soup and pie.
Tom turned right onto Mill Road and drove slowly.
He hadn’t called ahead.
Didn’t want to.
Something about making an appointment for the end felt too clean. Too neat. Life had never been neat—not with Matt, not with Lillian, and certainly not with a mutt like Sparky.
Instead, he pulled up to the Ridge Veterinary Clinic just past 8 a.m., parked under the same maple tree that still dropped crimson leaves onto the hood like confetti.
He looked over at the dog.
“Sparky,” he said gently. “We’re just here to check, alright?”
The dog didn’t lift his head. But his tail gave a slow, two-beat wag against the flannel.
Tom smiled softly. “Atta boy.”
Inside, the smell of antiseptic and peanut butter treats hit him like a memory. The walls were still painted seafoam green. The same carved wooden plaque still hung by the front desk: “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”
A woman in purple scrubs looked up from behind the counter. “Mr. Merrick?”
He hadn’t even said his name.
He nodded slowly. “Tom.”
Her face softened. “Emily called ahead this morning. Told us about Sparky.”
Tom swallowed. “Is Dr. Lang in?”
“She just got here. Room two’s open. Take your time.”
He carried the dog in his arms.
Not much weight anymore. Just warmth. Just memory.
Room two was bright, sun pouring through half-open blinds. A faded poster on the wall showed the skeletal structure of a Labrador. Another had a golden retriever licking a child’s face under big block letters: “Love Heals.”
He eased Sparky onto the padded table. The dog stirred and let out a soft breath.
Then Tom pulled up a chair.
He didn’t cry. Not yet.
Instead, he rested one calloused hand over the dog’s paw and waited.
Dr. Lang knocked once, then stepped in. Same white coat, same gentle face. She’d been fresh out of school when Sparky had first come to her—back when the dog still had a spring in his step and a bad habit of chewing through porch cushions.
Now she looked ten years older. Maybe more. But still kind.
She glanced at the bundle on the table and sighed softly. “Hey, old friend.”
Sparky’s tail wagged faintly.
She touched his head, checked his gums, felt his heartbeat.
Then she looked at Tom.
“He’s tired,” she said gently. “Kidneys are failing. His breathing’s shallow. We’re at the end, Tom.”
Tom nodded. “I figured.”
“I can give him something to keep him comfortable for a few hours. Or…”
He looked away. Out the window, where a crow hopped along the edge of the parking lot, pecking at a crushed acorn.
Tom turned back. “Can I sit with him a while first?”
Dr. Lang nodded. “As long as you need.”
They were alone again.
Tom leaned forward, resting his forehead gently on the blanket beside Sparky’s head.
“You remember the summer Josh taught you to jump in the creek? You couldn’t swim worth a damn, but you kept trying. That tail of yours was more propeller than rudder.”
The dog gave a faint twitch. Maybe a dream. Maybe just the wind.
Tom kept talking.
“And that time you dragged Lillian’s shoe halfway into the chicken coop? Thought she was going to tan both our hides. But she just laughed. Called you a ‘little outlaw.’ You liked that.”
He paused.
“You were there when she passed. Curled under her hand. Didn’t move for hours after.”
His throat tightened.
“You’ve always known where to be.”
Sparky blinked slowly. Just once.
Tom whispered, “It’s okay if you go now.”
He kissed the top of the dog’s head. The fur smelled like pine and dust and age.
“I’ll be alright.”
Dr. Lang returned twenty minutes later.
When it was done—quiet, painless—Tom didn’t move right away. He just sat with the bundle, hand still resting on the blanket, as if afraid to lift it and find nothing underneath.
Finally, he stood.
“I’d like to bury him up on Ridge 14,” he said. “By the marker.”
Dr. Lang nodded. “Would you like help?”
Tom smiled faintly. “No. I think this one’s mine to carry.”
That afternoon, Tom dug the hole himself.
The spot overlooked the bend in the forest trail where Sparky had first appeared years ago—young, fast, and full of chaos. The same trail where the deer had stood. Where Lillian once tied blue ribbons to the trees to mark “hidden treasures” for Josh’s childhood treasure hunts.
He placed Sparky in the ground wrapped in Lillian’s flannel, the clay deer tucked beside him.
Then he knelt, pressed his hand to the mound, and whispered, “Thank you.”
For staying.
For returning.
For reminding him what love without words looks like.
Back home, as the sun dipped low and the wind rolled down the valley, Tom found something in the mailbox again.
No stamp. No return address.
Just a folded slip of paper tucked between the flyers.
He opened it slowly.
“He waited twelve years to find his way home.
Don’t waste what time you have left.
—L”
Tom stared at it a long time.
Then he went inside.
Pulled out a blank notecard.
And began to write.
