Part 5 – “The Visitor Log”
By the next Wednesday, a quiet buzz had begun to gather around Junebug—not loud or boastful, just a hush of reverence that followed wherever Margaret carried her.
She was still alive.
Still breathing.
Still waiting.
The receptionist had taken to setting a small folded towel on Junebug’s usual corner of the bench. Milo now greeted her with less sarcasm and more ceremony, like a page announcing royalty. Even Baxter the lizard’s owner gave a solemn little nod before sitting down. Sister Abigail, true to her role, blessed the space with a soft chime from the bell stitched to her vest.
And that morning, something new had appeared beside Margaret’s chair: a plain notebook with a note clipped to the cover.
VISITOR LOG — For Junebug’s Friends
Write something. Draw something. Remember something.
Margaret blinked, touched. She opened the cover and saw that the boy in orange mittens had already added his sketch—Junebug lying in front of the heater with her eyes half open, a halo made of dog biscuits above her head.
Underneath, in shaky handwriting:
“She’s not gone. She’s just slow.” – Danny, Age 7
Milo had scribbled something too, apparently with Doris’s help.
“If you ever meet a quieter hero, check your hearing. – M.”
Margaret laughed softly. Junebug, half-asleep, let out a small grunt. Her tail twitched.
“Your fan club is growing,” Margaret whispered.
Dr. Sorenson entered the room a few minutes later, glanced around at the unusually crowded benches, and raised an eyebrow. “Full house this morning.”
“We’re all just… here for the same reason,” Margaret said.
“To wait?”
“To wait with her.”
Inside the exam room, the air felt heavier. Not with sadness, exactly—just with the weight of time passing too quietly. Dr. Sorenson listened, palpated, checked her gums. Then he did something he hadn’t done in weeks: he smiled.
“She’s stabilizing,” he said. “Barely. But enough to say… she’s not done.”
Margaret exhaled, shoulders slumping.
“She still hasn’t eaten,” she said. “Just nibbled a corner of toast yesterday. But she wags her tail if she hears Danny’s name.”
“She’s choosing what matters,” he replied.
Margaret’s fingers found Junebug’s paw, cold and dry and still.
“I think this room is what matters.”
Back in the waiting room, another visitor had arrived—a woman in her sixties with a tiny, ancient poodle wrapped in a flannel scarf. She approached Margaret with a cautious smile.
“Are you… the one with Junebug?”
“I am,” Margaret said.
“My dog, Penny, has cancer,” the woman said. “She’s stopped eating. But every time I pass this clinic, she perks up. I think… I think she wants to see your dog.”
Junebug opened one eye at the sound of a new voice. Penny gave a tiny, high-pitched bark and sniffed toward her. Then, gently, she laid her head against Junebug’s side.
For a few seconds, neither dog moved.
Then Junebug gave the smallest thump of her tail.
It was enough.
The woman knelt and cried softly into her scarf. “I didn’t know how to say goodbye.”
Margaret reached over and offered the visitor log. “Then maybe don’t. Maybe just say something that lasts instead.”
The woman wrote:
March 17 – Penny met Junebug today. Didn’t need words. Didn’t need time. Just one tail thump. And suddenly, I could breathe again.
As the snow thickened outside, and coats were unzipped and zipped again, Margaret noticed something had changed.
The waiting room had stopped feeling like a place for the sick.
It had become a place for the living. Even those near the end.
And in the middle of it all, small and still and wrapped in yellow wool, Junebug waited like a quiet stone in the river—letting stories flow around her.
Continue Reading Part 6 – “The Breath Between Beats”
