The meal that night was smaller because his teeth and stomach were not what they used to be. Soft chicken. Rice. Pumpkin. A little broth.
Coco ate every bite.
Then he walked into the living room.
The Christmas tree lights reflected from his cloudy eye.
Henry’s photograph was sitting on the mantel.
Coco circled beneath the tree.
He lay down.
Hannah covered him with a blanket.
For the next two days, Coco barely left the house except to go outside briefly.
He no longer chased wrapping paper.
He watched Caleb throw a tennis ball but did not follow it.
Mostly he slept.
Several times I wondered whether we should take him to a veterinarian, but Coco showed no immediate signs of pain or distress. We decided that if he stayed beyond his usual two days, we would arrange a full examination.
On December 27, he stood at the door.
I almost laughed.
Of course.
Even age had not rewritten that part.
David opened it.
Coco stepped outside.
Then stopped.
He looked toward us.
For a few seconds, I wanted to close the door, grab his collar, and decide that this year the ritual ended differently.
Instead, I remembered Henry.
A man who had understood before we did that loving a dog like Coco meant allowing him to remain himself.
Hannah touched his head.
“See you next year.”
Nobody knew whether there would be another year.
Coco walked away.
For months afterward, no one saw him.
That was normal.
Still, as the next December approached, the uncertainty felt heavier.
Coco would have been old by then.
Perhaps twelve or thirteen.
Maybe older.
On December 23, Caleb placed his bowl near the kitchen.
Hannah had left for college but came home early specifically because, as she said, “somebody has to make sure you don't mess up his dinner.”
Christmas Eve arrived.
We waited.
Five o’clock.
Six.
Seven.
No Coco.
By ten, snow covered the porch.
Hannah left the light on anyway.
We went to bed.
At 1:12 in the morning, something moved outside.
I woke when my phone displayed the security alert.
I opened the camera.
For one second, my heart stopped.
A dog stood near the porch.
Then it moved closer.
Not Coco.
A young black dog sniffed the walkway and disappeared.
I put the phone down.
Christmas morning arrived without him.
It was the first Christmas in seven years that Coco was not beneath our tree.
We did not know what had happened.
That was the hardest part.
There was no phone call.
No veterinary record.
No person who could tell us where Coco spent the rest of the year.
Maybe another family cared for him.
Maybe he had died peacefully somewhere months earlier.