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The dog’s tail wags. The man is taking him on a walk! The dog used to live Outside, but that was Before the man found him. The dog was a little uneasy Inside, but grew accustomed to the arrangement, gladly trading cold, thirst and starvation for a warm blanket and two bowls, one full of water, the other of kibble or - and those were the dog’s favorite - leftovers of the man’s dinner. The dog didn’t mind that the kibble was cheap and the leftovers few - the dog was small, and did not need a lot to fill his tummy.
The man, putting on a suede fedora hat, smiled at his wagging tail. His eyes shone bright, but his face was wrinkled like a plowed field, long and gaunt with high cheekbones and sunken cheeks. He was old and weak, the dog knew - the man’s hair was white and soft and his stubble gray and rough; his hands bony and elbows and knees sharp. The coat he put on now hung heavily on frail shoulders; he has worn it for as long as the dog remembered and like all of his clothing, it showed signs of age - its color was faded by the sun and washed out, and there was a patch on one of the elbows. The man was old and weak, but it mattered little when he smiled at the dog.
The asphalt of the pavement is darker than usual, and wet; it rained throughout the night. The fallen leaves he likes chasing don’t rustle in the wind today, stuck to the ground. The man would usually talk to him - he’d tell him about the birds the dog would watch with perked ears and stiff tail, about the people they passed on the street (though they, as far as the dog could tell, never spoke about them or to them) and about the leaves. The man would tell him which tree each leaf came from, and he painted vivid descriptions of their colors with his words.
But today, under light gray skies, the man walks silently, his eyes not on the birds or people or leaves, looking somewhere where the dog can not see. Even their route is different; instead of turning left - towards the man’s favorite bench and the dog’s favorite meadow - the leash in his hand strains a little as the man turns right. The dog is a little confused at this change in their routine, but excited about the prospect of discovering and exploring whatever place they would go. He happily pats along, confident that the man would not take him anywhere dangerous.
There is a tall - even taller than the man! - wall with a wrought-iron gate hanging from rusty hinges. The stones of the wall are rough and covered in moss and lichen that wildly paint abstract images, though only for those that know to seek them. The dog does not and today, the man passes them without notice. He pushes the gate open - it only creaks a little - and enters, ignoring the sign showing a stick figure of a dog, rejected sharply by a red line drawn across its torso. The dog does not see red, either.
The man follows a wide path leading from the gate. He is walking slowly, because the path is older than him, cracked and uneven, and the man is not quite as steady on his two legs as the dog is on four. The dog does not mind, since it gives him enough time to look around and take in all the new scents. He inhales in deep, deep breaths, and huffs out white puffs of steam. The earth is rich here, its smell heavier, more solemn, though not unpleasant; it reminds him of the weak coffee the man likes to make in their idle afternoons after lunch.
The dog looks up at the man. Though his breathing becomes more labored and deeper, it does not look as if he was aware of all the nuanced, intriguing scents at all. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t tell the dog which trees line the path they walk. The man, his lips moving soundlessly, looks at the stones between the trees - they are flat, only about as thick as the width of his hand, but wide. Attached to them, as if it had its head in their laps, usually lies another, much larger stone, about the size of the man’s bed.
It’s not very tall, so the dog can easily see the bouquets and wreaths of flowers laid on it, the wooden and stone crosses, ceramic statuettes of winged humans, even many of the glass vase-like things in which the man sometimes put a lit candle at home and then places it next to a picture on the table. One of the people on the photograph is the man; the dog never met the other one.
The man slows down, then stops, eyes fixed on one of the stones. His eyes move back and forth along the engraved letters and the heap of leaves covering the slab of stone. The bouquets and wreaths are old and have wilted long ago; candles extinguished. The man sighs, his back protesting as he bends over trying to scrape the wax off - but it stubbornly sticks to the stone.
His head hangs low as he kneels in front of the stones, one hand placed on it, the other gripping the leash and pressed against his heart. He starts shaking, quietly, only letting one sob escape from deep within his chest. The dog’s ears are pinned to his head. He’s never seen the man do this, though he remembers the sound from the early days of their cohabitation - it sometimes escaped from the man’s chest after he lit the candle. Was he sick? Is he now?
The dog inches closer and nudges the man’s hand. The cold and wet sensation of his nose seems to startle the man; he looks up, tears running down his cheeks and into his mouth like two streams, snot hanging from the tip of his nose even as he sniffles. The dog doesn’t think twice about doing it, he starts licking the salty water off the old, dark, wrinkled skin. And if the man starts crying again, now hugging the dog close, what does it matter - he just licks his face over and over again.