We went home. On the road, I looked at him in the rearview mirror. He was sitting on the bench, the suitcase beside him, his muzzle resting against her. His golden coat shone in the light of the dashboard, but his eyes were empty.

As if his body was there, but an essential part of him was missing. I knew that feeling. Every morning I would wake up and see the same emptiness in the mirror. We had both lost something. I didn’t know what, exactly.

At home, I gave him water. He drank as if he hadn’t seen water in weeks. For a long time, almost two minutes, without lifting my head, and I could hear the water going down her throat. Then I opened a can of tuna. He ate in three minutes, almost without chewing, as if he was afraid that the food would be taken away from him. Then he looked at me. That look he gave me was something I hadn’t received from any human being in years. A look that said, “Thank you. I trust you. »

“Wait for me there,” I told him. I went to the store, two blocks away. I bought a large bag of kibble, which was difficult to carry. I bought two toys – a rubber bone and a cloth ball. I bought a necklace and a fluffy basket. When I got home, Barney – because I decided to call him that – was sitting in the same place, next to the suitcase. He hadn’t even moved to explore the house. He hadn’t sniffed any corners. He hadn’t looked out of any window. He was waiting. As he had waited three weeks by the side of the road.

I sat on the floor facing him, the bag of kibble next to me. “What’s in that suitcase?” I asked. He pricked up his ears. He tilted his head slightly to the left, as if trying to understand every word. I approached the suitcase. He didn’t stop me. He didn’t try to protect her this time. He just watched as I slowly opened the zipper.

There wasn’t much inside. An old khaki jacket, with several pieces. A photo. And a letter. A yellowed sheet, folded in three to fit in the jacket pocket. No envelope. In the photo, an elderly man, with a white beard, soft eyes, standing in front of a small house with a door painted blue. He was holding a dog in his arms. The same dog. A golden retriever, a little younger, but with the same eyes. On the back of the photo, someone had written: “Barney and I, summer 2017”. The same handwriting as that of the letter.

I opened the letter. The writing was shaking, the letters were irregular, some so weakly pressed that you could barely see them, as if the person writing had had trouble holding his pen. I had to squint to read the first words.

“If anyone reads this, my name is Walter Jenkins. I live at 12 Elm Building, Santa Fe, New Mexico. The little house with the blue door, if it’s still standing. I am seventy-nine years old. The doctors say I don’t have much time left.

Four weeks, they said. Maybe less. I go to the hospital. I was told that I might not believe it. I don’t have a family. My wife left twenty years ago. We didn’t have children. My dog’s name is Barney. He’s been with me for nine years. He’s the only living being who has ever loved me unconditionally. I can’t leave him on the street. I can’t take him to the hospital. He will not be allowed in. I am writing this in the hope that God will send someone.

I beg you. Take care of Barney. It’s the only family I’ve ever had. There is some money in the suitcase. Not many. About three hundred dollars. Take it. Just take care of him. He is used to going for a walk every morning. He likes to watch birds. He doesn’t bite, he never bited, even when he was in pain. »

At the bottom of the page, a small note, added at the last minute: “P.S. He loves tuna. But not too much, because it swells. And he is afraid of the storm. If he hears thunder, he hides under the bed. P.P.S. His birthday is July 14. He will be ten years old this year. If you can, give him something he likes that day. He deserves it. »

The money was not there. Maybe someone had taken it before me. Maybe Walter had made a mistake, or the money had fallen on the road. It didn’t matter. I looked at Barney. He was seated in the same place, his eyes fixed on the letter, as if he knew how to read. Maybe he could feel Walter’s finger print on the paper. Maybe he heard Walter’s voice in his memory. I read the letter twice. Then a third. My eyes got wet. The last time I cried was nine years ago, when my second wife left and I stood in the empty kitchen with her cup of coffee still on the table. Now I was crying again. But not for me. For Walter. For Barney.

“We’re going to Santa Fe,” I told him. My voice broke. Barney wagged his tail. For the first time in three weeks, I think. It was just a small movement, from one side to the other, but it was so expressive that I started laughing through my tears. “Yes,” I said. There we go. »

The journey lasted eleven hours. I didn’t go to work. I called, I said I was sick. In reality, I was. Sick of my life where nothing made sense. Barney was sitting in the passenger seat, the suitcase at his feet. He had rested his head on my thigh, and sometimes he would put a paw on my hand. He would doze off, wake up, go back to sleep, and every time he woke up, he would look at me, as if to make sure I was still there. I was thinking of Walter. He had written this letter, he had put it in the suitcase, he had left his dog by the side of the road. Maybe he hoped that someone would find them. Maybe hope was all he had left. I understood that in my life too, hope was probably the only thing missing.

The 12 Elm Building was a small building with yellow plaster that was crumbling. The door was no longer blue. It was painted gray, and the paint was peeling. An elderly neighbor with curly hair came out and looked at me suspiciously. I showed Barney. His face immediately softened. “Oh, you found Barney,” she said. Poor thing. Walter was taken to the hospital three weeks ago. The same day he disappeared. “I know,” I replied. He was waiting by the side of the road. Every day. Three weeks. The woman put her hand to her mouth. “My God,” she whispered. He was waiting for Walter to come back. »

At the hospital, a nurse looked me in the eye. She was young, barely thirty years old, but her eyes bore a fatigue that required years. “Walter Jenkins,” she said. She looked at the computer screen. Then she lowered her voice. “He left two weeks ago. I’m sorry. He wanted to go home so badly. He kept talking about his dog. He said that the dog was waiting for him. We didn’t know where the dog was. I stood in the hallway, Barney on a leash, the little red suitcase at my feet. I didn’t know how to feel.

I had never met Walter. I had never heard his voice. But I felt like I had lost something important. Maybe it was hope. Perhaps it was the realization that someone could love a creature so much that their last thought was not for themselves, nor for their pain, nor for their fear, but for their dog. “Take care of Barney,” he wrote. And he did.

“May I know where he is buried?” I asked. My voice was barely audible. The nurse wrote an address on a small piece of paper. The municipal cemetery, the old section, where those who had no family were buried. I took the paper. Barney sniffed it. Then he turned to the door, as if he knew where we were going.

We went. The sun was setting, the sky was tinged with orange and purple. The cemetery was silent, only a bird was singing in the distance. Barney got out of the car without taking the suitcase, for the first time. He walked beside me towards the freshly turned earth, under a large tree. Her golden coat shone faintly in the setting light. He walked slowly, his head lowered, his tail motionless. Walter Jenkins. 1944-2023. No other word.

Not “beloved father”. Not “darling husband”. No epitaph. Just the name, the date of birth and the day he left this world. Barney sat on the grave. He tilted his head to the right, then to the left, as if he was looking for a voice. There, in the silence of the cemetery, I heard a noise. He was crying.

The same silent, trembling tears from the depths of the world as they did for three weeks by the roadside. But now, more peaceful. Lighter. As if he had finally understood. As if someone had whispered in his ear: “He’s here. You found it. He won’t come back, but he’s there. »

I sat next to him. I put my hand on his back. Her coat was warm from the sun, soft and thick, like golden velvet. He didn’t move. We stayed there, maybe half an hour, maybe an hour, I had lost track of time. I started talking. To Walter. “I’ll take care of him,” I said. I promise you. He will go out for a walk every morning. He will eat tuna, but not too much, so as not to swell. I will find the date of his birthday. July 14. I’ll give him something he likes that day. I don’t know what yet, but I’ll find out. Barney raised his head. He looked at me. And then he did something he hadn’t done for three weeks. He wagged his tail. Slowly. Once on the right, once on the left. But it was enough. I saw. I felt that something was changing in me.

When night fell, I said, “Let’s go home, Barney.” He stood up. He looked at the grave one last time, and then he looked at me. His eyes were no longer watering. They were peaceful. I opened the door of the car. He jumped inside. This time, he sat in the passenger seat, put the suitcase at my feet, and laid his head on my lap. This is how we made the eleven hours of the return. I talked to him all the way. I told him about my life. Josh. My weddings. How I had felt, all my life, that I had taken the wrong path. He listened. Sometimes he would lick my hand. Sometimes he was content to breathe, with an even and warm breath.

That night, we returned to Phoenix. Barney slept on my bed. He rested his head on the suitcase, which I had placed next to my pillow. Her golden coat shone in the light of the moon that came in through the window. I put my hand on his back. He wagged his tail. I fell asleep. For the first time in months, I fell asleep without having bad dreams.

Three months have passed. I still work in this warehouse. Josh still hasn’t called. My marriages will not come back. But every morning when I wake up, Barney is lying next to me. His head is on my pillow, or his muzzle resting against my shoulder. Her golden coat is spread on my pillowcase, and I no longer feel the house empty. We have not replaced our respective losses. He still misses Walter. I still miss Josh. But we have learned to stand side by side in silence and to simply be there. That’s more than I’ve had in years.

Sometimes, on Sundays, I take him to the cemetery. He sits on Walter’s grave. I sit next to him. I tell Walter what happened during the week. Barney listens. Sometimes he wags his tail when I say Walter’s name. I know it’s strange. But that’s the only place where I feel like someone can hear me. One day, Barney will leave. I will leave too. But until then, we have each other. And I have a letter that an old man wrote in his last days. I keep it under my pillow. Barney knows where she is.