The officer reached for his radio to call Social Services when he saw the empty leash dragging on the pavement behind me.
“Sir,” the young deputy said, stepping out of his cruiser. He kept one hand near his belt, his eyes darting between my face and the empty red nylon strap. “Do you know where you are right now? Do you know… there’s no dog attached to that clip?”
I stopped. I tightened my grip on the handle.
I knew exactly what he was seeing.
He saw an 82-year-old man in a faded Navy windbreaker, standing on the corner of Oak and 4th at 6:30 A.M., talking to thin air.
I knew what the neighbors were seeing, too. I’ve seen the blinds twitch in the windows. I know what they write on the neighborhood Facebook group. “Old Mr. Henderson is losing it.” “It’s not safe.” “Someone should call his daughter before he hurts himself.”
My daughter, Jessica, was just here last week. She left a glossy brochure on my kitchen counter for “Silver Creek Assisted Living.” She thinks I’m slipping. She thinks I’m lonely. She thinks my mind is dissolving into a fog of dementia.
But what they call madness, I call loyalty.
You see, for 45 years, this morning walk wasn’t a solo act. It was a trio. Me, my wife Sarah, and a rescue Golden Retriever named Rusty.
Every morning, before the Florida heat kicked in, we walked. We walked through the recessions of the 80s. We walked through the silence after the kids went to college. We walked when we were broke, and we walked when we finally paid off the mortgage.
