Part 1: The Last Meal
I walked my old Labrador into a five-star steakhouse and ordered the priciest cut on the menu, then told the manager this would be his last meal because tomorrow morning I would say goodbye. Phones lifted, rules squared off against mercy, and in the hush that followed, the whole room had to decide what kind of people they were willing to be.
Ranger’s muzzle is white now, the same winter that has spread across my hair and hands.
Thirteen years of steady eyes and warm breath at my knee have taught me more about patience than any sermon I ever heard.
I am seventy-eight.
I don’t move fast, but sorrow moves faster.
The host blinked when I asked for a corner table with room for a dog to lie down.
The carpet looked soft enough to remember better days.
