Part 5: The Last Watch Begins
They sat at the lake until the sun dropped behind the trees.
John didn’t rush it.
He’d spent too many years watching clocks, calling in times, waiting for dispatch. Now he just watched the sky shift and Bear’s chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm — slow but certain.
A squirrel darted across the clearing. Bear’s ears didn’t twitch.
That hurt more than John expected.
He gave the old dog another piece of chicken, crumbling it gently so it didn’t get stuck in his teeth. Bear licked it from his fingers like a pup — soft, trusting, without urgency.
“You and me, huh?” John said, voice gravel low. “We outlasted damn near everything.”
The lake didn’t answer, just rippled.
By the time they drove home, the stars had begun to blink in. The house felt different. Not empty — not yet — but waiting.
John lifted Bear from the truck with care, like a father carrying a child half-asleep after a long day. He laid him in the living room on the old woven rug Bear had claimed years ago.
Darlene had left a note on the porch:
Soup’s in the fridge. I’ll check in tomorrow morning. He’s lucky to have you. We all are.
It was signed with a heart, scribbled in her usual loopy print.
John didn’t eat the soup.
He sat beside Bear with the lights dimmed and an old department radio on the table. It didn’t transmit anymore — just played quiet static, a hum from a different life.
He picked up the old leather collar that had been Bear’s first. The brass was worn, but the etching still showed:
SERVICE. LOYALTY. HEART.
He ran his thumb across each word.
Then he looked at Bear.
The dog’s breathing was more shallow now. There was no pain — John could see that. Just weariness. The kind that settles in the bones and waits patiently.
John reached for the phone, hesitated.
Then he dialed.
“Dr. Kate? Yeah… it’s John Mallory.”
The vet arrived just after sunrise.
She didn’t ask unnecessary questions. She’d seen Bear a dozen times before and knew this wasn’t about fixing anything. It was about honoring something.
John had made coffee and pulled Bear’s blanket over his back.
He stroked the dog’s head, whispering memories he hadn’t spoken aloud in years — stakeouts, early mornings, arrests that had gone wrong, and others that had gone just right. Bear’s eyes stayed on him the whole time.
“You did your job,” John said, voice cracking. “You never stopped doing your job.”
Dr. Kate knelt quietly. “You ready?”
John nodded, but he wasn’t.
Not really.
Not ever.
As the needle went in, Bear never flinched. He simply looked at John, the way he always had — not asking for anything, just knowing.
And when the light left his eyes, John didn’t cry at first.
He just sat there, hand resting on the still fur, letting the silence fill the house like fog over a field.
It was only when Dr. Kate touched his shoulder that the tears came — slow, old-man tears. The kind that didn’t come from panic or pain.
The kind that only came from love.
Bear was buried at the edge of the yard, under the tree where he used to chase shadows. John laid the squeaky ball beside him, wrapped in an old department towel.
Neighbors came by — not many, just a few. Some brought flowers. One brought a flag. The Ramirez kids left a handwritten card taped to a bag of treats.
Darlene came late in the day. Her eyes were rimmed red, and she carried a plate of cinnamon rolls she’d made that morning.
“Sugar’s still high,” she muttered, wiping her nose. “But today I needed the carbs.”
John smiled faintly. “He liked those.”
“I know.”
They stood at the grave a long time without speaking.
And though the sun dipped low again behind the roofs of Ashwood Lane, neither moved to go inside.
Because some nights aren’t meant to be hurried.
Some nights are made for remembering.
