The Dog Who Wasn’t Allowed to Wait

Walter Nowak was sixty-two when he decided to walk the Appalachian Trail on his own terms — not the whole thing, just his own stretch of it: from Damascus, Virginia, north through the Blue Ridge toward Roanoke, with nothing but a backpack and his old German shepherd, Duke. Duke was twelve, gray around the muzzle, and had favored his right front leg ever since the ice storm last winter. The vet in Damascus had told Walter the dog didn't have much time left. That was exactly why Walter wanted to make this trip with him before it ran out.

They'd been on the trail five days now, nearly fifty miles according to the map folded in Walter's shirt pocket, a map he hadn't bothered to open since Marion. The soles of his feet burned, the water bottle had been empty for two hours, and the sun still hung high over the ridgeline above Floyd. Duke's tongue hung out, his ribs rising and falling faster than usual, in short, dry pulls. Walter dug through his side pocket for the last bag of dog treats — empty, just crumbs stuck in the seams. He wadded it up and shoved it back in his pocket out of habit, not because there was a trash can anywhere in sight. His phone read 2:52 p.m., battery at eleven percent.

Then, around a bend in the gravel road, it appeared: a wrought-iron gate, curved like something out of a storybook, and behind it an estate with white columns, a fountain trickling softly, piano music drifting from an open window. Rosebushes lined the gravel drive, trimmed to perfection, not a single wilted bloom among them. A man in a spotless uniform stood at the gate, hands clasped behind his back.

"Afternoon," Walter said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "What is this place?"

"A retreat, sir. For hikers who've made it this far." The man took in Duke, then Walter's cracked lips. "Looks like you could use it."

"Is there water?"

"Spring water, filtered to the last drop. A pool, too, if you'd like. Forty rooms, each with its own porch."

"And food?"

"Whatever your heart desires. Our chef spent twenty years at a four-star place in Charlottesville. Tonight it's venison."

Walter's stomach clenched at the word venison. He looked down at Duke, who had sunk to the ground beside his leg, flanks heaving. "He comes with me, of course."

The man at the gate's expression soured, like he'd been handed a glass of bad wine. "No dogs on the property. House rules. He can be tied up out here by the lamppost, and we'll bring a bowl out whenever someone's free."

"How long's that?"

"Kitchen staff starts at four." The man checked his watch. "Good hour yet."

Walter stood there, his own tongue dry as chalk, doing the math: an hour tied to a lamppost while piano music played inside. He took half a step toward the gate, hand already reaching for his pack strap. Then he looked at Duke's right front leg, bent slightly inward against the gravel, and stopped.

"No," he said, more to himself than to the man. He turned and walked back onto the dusty road. The fountain kept trickling behind him, indifferent.

Almost an hour later, with the sun lower now and long shadows stretching across the fields, they reached a small farmhouse at the edge of the woods. Weathered clapboard, a rusted tin roof dented from some old hailstorm, chickens scratching in the dirt that scattered squawking as they approached. An older man sat out front in a rickety wooden rocker, a pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth, a flannel blanket over his knees despite the warmth.

"Evening," Walter said, his voice rough. "I'm about dying of thirst, and so's my dog."

The old man looked Duke over for a moment, then pushed himself up, one hand pressed to his lower back. "There's a well out back, best water in the county. Never cost a dime and never will."

"What about my dog?"

"There's an old enamel bowl by the trough, chipped on the rim but clean. I'll fill it for him."

"You got anything to eat?"

"Potato soup from last night, tastes better the second day, and bread from the bakery in town, fresh this morning at six." He pointed with the pipe stem toward a bench by the door. "Sit down before you fall down."

Duke had already dragged himself to the enamel bowl and was drinking in long, sloppy gulps, water splashing over his paws. The old man watched without a word, then disappeared into the house and came back out with a bone still clinging to shreds of meat. He set it down beside the bowl without comment and lowered himself back into the rocker.

Walter sank onto the bench, his legs suddenly heavy as wet sand. He spooned up the soup, which tasted of bacon and too much black pepper, and watched Duke pin the bone between his front paws, gnawing with an audible crack.

"What would you have done," Walter asked after a while, "if I'd shown up without him?"

The old man drew on his pipe, the smoke drifting sideways in the evening air. "Would've given you soup just the same. But I'd have asked where the dog got to."

Walter rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, felt the day's dust there. He thought about the gate, the hour he'd have spent waiting by that lamppost, the venison. Then he pushed the thought aside and poured himself coffee from the pot the old man had set on the table — black, bitter, scalding hot.

"I think," he said, "I'll stay here a few days. If that's all right."

"Suits me fine. Barn's dry, straw's fresh." The old man knocked his pipe against the leg of the rocker.

Duke had finished the bone by now and dropped down between the two chairs with a groan, resting his head on Walter's dusty boots. His breathing had deepened and slowed. Above the tin roof, the first swallows circled, and somewhere in the barn a cow bellowed after being milked. Walter laid his hand on Duke's head, felt the trembling in his flanks ease little by little, and didn't move from the bench again.