Part 4: One More Round
The air smelled of rain, though none had fallen.
John stood on the porch with his hands in his pockets, watching a storm that hadn’t come. Across the street, the Ramirez kids rode bikes in lazy loops. A package truck hissed to a stop. Somewhere a screen door slammed.
Bear lay on the porch rug beside him, too tired to sit upright. His breathing was soft but shallow, like something buried deep inside was pulling energy away from his lungs.
John reached down and let his fingers rest on Bear’s neck, just beneath the collar. The leather was worn smooth from years of wear. The tag — a dull brass rectangle — still read:
“K9 BEAR — UNIT 327 — RPD”
John traced it with his thumb.
The badge numbers were his too.
He remembered the day they got paired — Richmond, 2013. Bear was two years old, sharp as a blade, just out of training. John had been gruff, skeptical. Never trusted dogs much, not since a bite back in ‘92. But Bear was different. He followed commands like he understood why they mattered.
Their first call had been a domestic case. Screaming in a second-floor apartment. Bear held his ground while John cuffed a suspect twice his size. No barking. No panic. Just presence.
And loyalty.
That was the word John kept circling now.
Loyalty.
He felt Bear shift. The dog opened his eyes and tried to sit, failed, and let his head fall back down with a soft grunt.
“You don’t have to prove anything, partner,” John said softly. “Not anymore.”
Darlene came by that evening with meatloaf in a covered dish and a bottle of ginger ale in her tote. She looked tired, and her steps were uneven.
“You alright?” John asked, eyeing her carefully.
She waved off the concern. “Had a sugar crash around lunch. Didn’t eat enough protein this morning. Doc says I’m still adjusting to the new meds.”
“That’s the third week in a row something’s come up,” John said. “You keeping track?”
She nodded. “Always. It’s a balancing act. And sometimes I fall off the beam.”
He helped her unpack the food and carried two plates to the porch table.
“I hate seeing you like this,” she said, her voice quieter now.
“Like what?”
“Trying not to cry over that dog.”
He paused, then sat down beside her.
“I’ve buried friends. Buried family. But this one… he knew me before I got soft. Before the limp. Before the silence. Bear didn’t just work beside me—he witnessed me.”
Darlene nodded, then said something John didn’t expect.
“You should take him to the lake.”
“What lake?”
“Chesdin. About forty minutes south. Remember? You told me once it’s where you took him after his retirement. That spot where he swam until sunset?”
John blinked. He hadn’t thought about that day in years.
“Take him one last time,” Darlene said gently. “While he still knows who you are.”
At 6:30 the next morning, John packed two thermoses, a wool blanket, Bear’s favorite squeaky ball, and some grilled chicken wrapped in foil. Bear was already lying by the door, as if he’d known.
The drive was quiet. Trees blurred past the windows, and country radio hummed low in the background. John reached over once to rest a hand on Bear’s shoulder.
“We’re not running calls anymore,” he said. “But I figured we deserved one more round.”
The lake was still the same — flat and silver, framed by bare trees and low-hanging clouds. John parked by the same old bench where they’d sat that day three years ago.
He laid the blanket on the grass and carried Bear to it.
The dog wagged once — just once — when the breeze hit his face.
John sat beside him and opened the foil. Bear licked the chicken slowly, savoring every bite.
“I remember,” John said aloud, “how you’d charge into that water like it owed you something.”
Bear didn’t move. Just watched the ripples across the lake.
John leaned back, legs stretched out in the grass, hand resting lightly on Bear’s side.
It wasn’t a goodbye.
Not yet.
But it was something close.
The wind picked up gently, and the water answered with small waves.
John closed his eyes.
And for the first time in months, he wasn’t afraid of what came next.
