That surprised him.
For months he had wanted answers with a hunger that bordered on obsession. Where had Brush gone? Why had he not come back? Had he forgotten the route? Been picked up and abandoned again? Been wandering in widening circles? Followed some old track of instinct that no one could decode?
Once Brush was home, those questions still existed, but they no longer ruled Daniel. The dog was here. He had weight to regain, medicine to take, and sleep to catch up on in a place where no weather could reach him. Mystery lost some of its power once relief entered the room.
The first night back, Daniel placed Brush’s old bed beside his own bed even though the dog had not used it much before going missing. He expected restlessness. He expected Brush to pace, drink too much water, or wake disoriented in the dark. Instead, the old K9 ate half a bowl of softened food, limped once through the living room as if checking that the walls still existed, and then collapsed into the bed with a sigh so deep it sounded almost human.
Daniel did not sleep much.
Twice he got up simply to look at him.
Brush was still there both times, breathing steadily, front paws twitching once or twice in sleep.
Lily arrived the next afternoon. The moment she stepped through the door, Brush stood too fast, lost balance slightly, then corrected and moved toward her with that same slow-whining recognition he had given Daniel. Lily knelt in the foyer and cried into his neck.
“I can’t believe you did this to us,” she told him.
Brush licked her chin.
For the next several weeks, recovery became its own kind of reunion. Brush slept more than Daniel had ever seen him sleep. He ate small meals six times a day until his stomach adjusted. He followed Daniel from room to room at first, not from anxiety exactly, but from a renewed need for confirmation. If Daniel stood up, Brush lifted his head. If Daniel went to the bathroom and closed the door, Brush waited outside. If Daniel stepped onto the porch without him, the dog came as far as his stiff legs allowed and watched until Daniel returned.
At night, Brush resumed an old habit Daniel had forgotten: he leaned against the side of the couch whenever Daniel sat down, resting his head against Daniel’s knee as though reestablishing a line of contact that seven months of absence had made nonnegotiable.
Neighbors came by with casseroles, dog treats approved by the vet, and the kind of awkward emotion people often bring to happy endings they themselves needed. One retired officer from Daniel’s former department stood in the doorway, looked at Brush asleep on the rug, and had to clear his throat twice before speaking.
“Mean old bastard actually did come back.”
Daniel smiled.
“He was never mean.”
“He terrified me.”
“That’s because you moved wrong.”
The officer laughed, then crouched to look at Brush more closely.