COLONEL WON’T GET off the bed in the morning. He wags his tail listlessly but doesn’t even raise his head when I ask if he wants to go out. I check the clock; it’s too early to call the vet.

After yesterday’s rush, the diner is back to normal—my regulars sit at the counter, Ben, Bob and Rolly. Stuart is at his booth at the window, reading the paper. But I’m worried about Colonel, and as soon as the clock hits eight, I make the call. They tell me to come in tomorrow.

“He’s probably just feeling his age,” the nice tech tells me. “He’s in great shape for an old guy. How old is he now, fourteen?”

“Thirteen,” I say.

“That’s pretty good for a big dog like him.”

“I know. But he’s just not himself.”

For the rest of the day, I hop back and forth between the diner and my apartment. I manage to coax Colonel off the bed and outside so he can pee, but he laboriously climbs the steps as soon as he’s done. I help him back onto my bed and give him some water. “What’s the matter, boy?” I ask, stroking his head. “We’ll go see Dr. Kellar tomorrow, okay? He’ll help you out, Colonel.”

I have to throw together a couple of lasagnas for a funeral and bake a few dozen cookies, but all day, I’m itching to get home to my dog. It’s the awful plight of a pet owner: knowing something is wrong with your loyal companion, unable to figure out what. Could he have eaten something that’s made him sick? Did he get hurt somehow? Does he have cancer?

I get home for good around four, finally done for the day, then call Christy to see if she might come over and keep me company while I watch Colonel. But she’s still under the weather, and after hearing a description of her all-nighter with the toilet, I feel uncomfortable telling her about my dog’s listlessness. I’m lonely enough that I find myself calling Father Tim.

“Maggie, I’m terribly sorry, I’ve got to run,” he says. “I’m having dinner with the Guarinos tonight. Thanks for the lasagnas, by the way. They were wonderful.”

I manage a smile—Father Tim is the only man I know who can eat lasagna at four and go out to dinner at six. “Well, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m just a little worried about Colonel. He’s kind of quiet today. Not himself.”

“Don’t you worry,” he answers. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Tell you what, I’ll ring you later, shall I?”

“Sure.” I hang up and stretch out on the bed next to my dog. I stroke his ears and run my fingers through his silky ruff. He nestles closer and groans in contentment.

My father gave me Colonel just after Skip dumped me. I was staring out the window a week or two after Skip’s triumphant return to Gideon’s Cove, and my father walked in with Colonel, a blue ribbon tied around his neck. Rescued from one of those breeding mills down south, Colonel was then an overly large, rambunctious two-year old. It was love at first sight. That first night, he climbed, paw by paw, cautious as a jewel thief, onto my bed. Perhaps he thought if he went slowly, I wouldn’t notice the extra eighty pounds wedged into my twin bed. I was still living at home, and my mom had had a fit when she saw us the next morning, Colonel’s head on my pillow, my arm around his shaggy tummy.

“For heaven’s sake, Maggie! It’s an animal! Get it off! It might have fleas or lice or something.”

The next week, I moved out, into the very apartment I still live in, and Colonel and I began the next phase of our life together. When the humiliation and grief over Skip threatened to overwhelm me, Colonel would come over and nudge my hand with his nose until I petted him. Or he’d drop a ratty tennis ball at my feet, and if I ignored him, he’d repeat this ten or twelve times until I got the hint. He slept on my bed each night, his big head resting on my stomach as I fought off loneliness and tried to come up with a plan for my adult life.

Colonel only needed a little training, and I soon became known as “the one with the dog” to distinguish me from Christy. I never used a leash; Colonel just followed me cheerfully, always able to keep pace with my bike or walking beside me, his plumey tail waving like a flag. I’d go into a store, and he’d lie down on the sidewalk outside, patiently waiting for me to emerge. He took to the diner like a veteran waitress, never bothering the customers, just lying behind the register, watching people come and go until it was our turn to leave. Sure, it was against the health code, but no one ever found a dog hair in the food, and no one ever complained.

When my mother mused out loud that I’d never meet anyone, or when another date went wrong, when I came home from babysitting Violet, filled with yearning for a baby of my own, all I had to do was turn to his golden face and ask for a kiss. He never told me I was wasting my life—he thought my life was the best thing that ever happened to him. He never thought I talked too much; instead, his eyes would follow my every move, his ears pricked and alert when I spoke. He accepted every tummy scratch, every head pat, every evening on the couch as if it were a gift from God Himself, when really, it was just a drop in the bucket compared to the devotion he gave me.

“You’re my best bud,” I tell him. His tail thumps reassuringly. Cuddled together, we fall asleep.

 

I WAKE UP around three in the morning, knowing immediately that Colonel has died.

His body is still warm under my hand, but there’s just something missing. Tears flood my eyes, but I keep petting him, his beautiful soft golden fur. I stroke his white cheeks, feeling the wiry whiskers, the soft jowls of his throat. I don’t turn on the light—it would be sacrilegious somehow, because then I’d have to see that my dog of the past eleven years is dead. Instead, I just move closer to him, wrap both arms around his neck, bury my face in his fur and cry.

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” I choke out. Sorry that I didn’t rush him to the vet to see if there was anything wrong, sorry that I didn’t take the day off to be with him. “I’m so sorry, boy.”

I cry until the sheet beneath my face is soaked, until the sky goes from black to blue velvet to pink. When I can’t avoid it any longer, I sit up and look at him, his noble, gentle white face, the silky feathers of his belly and legs.

“Thanks for everything,” I whisper, my words pitifully inadequate.

The phone rings, and I know it’s Christy before I hear her voice. We know when the other is hurting.

“Is everything okay?” she whispers. It’s only five in the morning.

“Colonel died,” I tell her.

“Oh, no! Oh, Maggie!” she cries, and I start crying again, too. “Maggie, I’m so sorry, honey. Did he—did you have to—”

“He just died in his sleep, right on my bed,” I whisper.

“Oh, Colonel,” she murmurs, sniffing. I hear Will’s voice in the background, and Christy tells him my sad news.

“Can we do anything?” she asks.

“No, no,” I say. “I’m calling Jonah. He’ll give me a hand. How are you guys doing? Still sick?”

Christy sighs. “I’m still pretty whipped, and Violet’s got it now. She threw up all night, after she ate three helpings of ground-up spaghetti and meatballs for supper. We’ve barely slept.”

I notice that I’m still petting Colonel’s soft fur. “I hope you feel better,” I tell her.

I call my brother and ask if he’ll help me bring my dog to the vet for cremation when they open. Then I call Octavio and ask him to cover for me.

When Jonah comes over at quarter to eight, he thumps up my stairs and hugs me tight, tears in his eyes.

“Shit, Maggie. This just sucks,” he says, looking at the floor. “Maybe he’s with Dicky now or something. They were both awesome dogs.”

We go into the bedroom, and I kiss Colonel’s head once more as Jonah wipes his eyes on his sleeve. Then we wrap him in a blanket and carry him down to Jonah’s truck. Mrs. K. comes out to see what’s going on.

“Colonel died last night, Mrs. K.,” I tell her, and the old woman, who has buried a husband, three sisters and two of her four children, bursts into tears.

“Oh, Maggie,” she weeps, and I hug her frail shoulders, crying again myself.

Jonah and I slide Colonel into the back of his pickup, and I climb in beside my dog. “It’s gonna be cold back there, Mags,” my brother says.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. I hunker down and put my arm over the blanket so it won’t blow off, because that would just be too sad to see.

The people at the vet’s are so kind. They help us carry Colonel in through the back entrance and give me a moment to say goodbye.

“I’ll wait in the truck,” Jonah offers, closing the door softly behind him.

I pull the blanket off Colonel’s head and take one long, last look. He seems cozy, wrapped in the red plaid blanket that we used together on chilly nights. “I’ll miss you so much, buddy,” I whisper, my throat barely able to force the words out. “You were such a good dog. The best.”

I kiss his cheek, my tears wetting his fur. And then I leave.

Jonah drives me home so I can shower and strip the bed. I can barely look at my apartment, so lonely and empty, so I trudge to the diner, where Judy and Octavio cry over the news.

“Won’t be the same without him,” Judy sobs. “Shit. Shit, shit, fuck. I’m going out for a cigarette.”

Octavio makes a little sign that says “We regret to tell you of the passing of our great friend, Colonel” and tapes it to the cash register. Rolly shakes his head sadly, Bob Castellano gives me a whiskery kiss. Apparently Jonah or Christy calls my parents, because they come in around ten with Christy, who still looks pale and a bit shaky. She and my dad, who is crying openly, sandwich me in a hug.

“Thanks for coming,” I whisper. My own eyes are dry for the moment.

Dad blows his nose, then hugs me tightly. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he whispers.

“He was the best,” Christy says, her mouth wobbling.

“I know. Thank you.”

“Well, Maggie,” my mother says, and I brace myself for what comes next. “I’m sorry.”

I blink in surprise. She never tried to hide her disapproval, not being a dog lover herself. She barely tolerated Dicky, another of my father’s saves.

Judy takes care of the two remaining breakfast patrons, shooting us little glances and pretending not to listen.

“At least you won’t have to vacuum up its fur every day,” Mom says idly. “And the diner here will certainly be more sanitary without it.”

Ah, here she is, my real mother. My swollen eyes narrow.

“Mom!” Christy squeaks. “Jeezum!”

“What?” she says innocently. “It’s true. And look at you, Maggie, you’re a wreck. You look awful. All over a dog.”

“Mom,” I say, my voice is pleasingly calm. “Get the hell out of my diner.”

“Excuse me?” she asks. Dad steps back in alarm, and Christy puts her hand on his arm protectively.

“Get out, Mom. I loved that dog. He saw me through some of the worst times of my life. I’m sick of you disapproving of me, sick of you telling me that my life is a dead end, sick of you comparing me to Christy and her perfect life. Get out. Come back when you can act like a mother who loves all her children.”

My mother’s mouth is hanging open, and it’s odd, because at that moment, I love her more than I have in a long time. But enough is enough.

“Dad,” I say, “you really should stick up for me more.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“Christy, sorry. Love you.” I give her a stiff hug. “Hope you feel better. I’m going in the kitchen. Please be gone when I come out.”

Octavio, diplomatic as Switzerland, says nothing as I come in. I open the supply closet and sit down on the floor among the vinegar and canned tomatoes. My breath is ragged, and my hands, I note, are shaking. Tavy gives me five minutes, then opens the door.

“You okay, boss?” he asks.

“Peachy,” I say.

“About time you told that woman off,” he says, smiling his nice gap-toothed smile.

I give a grim laugh. “Thanks.”

 

I SEND JUDY HOME EARLY, preferring to stay as busy as possible. Word has spread, apparently. Chantal comes in for lunch, hugs me with uncharacteristic sweetness and hands me a bunch of tulips.

“Sorry, pal,” she says, sliding into a booth.

“Thanks. What can I get you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just some coffee today. I’m not feeling great.”

“Right. There’s a stomach bug going around,” I tell her. “Christy and the baby both have it.”

“Yuck. Well, if I don’t have it, I’d be happy to come over tonight, okay? If you want some company?”

“That’s okay. I think I just want to be alone.”

Chantal nods. “Hey, has Father Tim been in today?” she asks, checking her lipstick in the chrome of the little jukebox.

“Actually, no. I have to drop by and tell him about Colonel.” Suddenly, the idea of seeing Father Tim, being comforted by him, maybe having a cup of tea in the rectory living room, overwhelms me with longing. That’s where I’ll finally be able to find some comfort.

I call Beth Seymour and ask her to handle my meals on wheels tonight. When she hears about Colonel, she offers to tell my clients, many of whom loved my dog.

“Thanks, Beth. That would be nice,” I say. My eyes feel grainy and hard.

When I leave the diner, I automatically hold the door open a second too long before it occurs to me that my dog won’t be following me. There’s no one to look out for, no one to talk to…shit. Mom’s right. I’m pathetic.

Mrs. Plutarski glares at me when I ask if Father Tim is in. “He’s quite busy today, you know,” she says, pushing up her glasses on her razor-sharp nose. “This might not be the time for a…social visit.”

“I’ve just had a death in the family, Edith,” I say, knowing she hates it when I call her by her first name. She waits for a name, but I don’t give her one. “Is he in or not?” I demand.

“Maggie? I thought I heard your voice.”

There he is. “Hi, Father Tim. Do you have a minute? In private?”

“For you, Maggie, always. Edith, my darlin’ girl, would you mind faxing this over to the mother ship? It needs to be there today.” He hands her a piece of paper, which she accepts as if it were an engagement ring. “Sorry, Maggie. Official diocese business. Thanks, Edith.”

“Don’t forget you have that meeting in Machias at six,” she says, her eyes on me. Make it short is what she’s really saying.

“What can I do for you today, Maggie?” Father Tim asks, ushering me into the parlor.

I sit in the chair, ready to be comforted. “Father Tim, Colonel…he died last night.”

At first, the news doesn’t register. I suddenly remember that Father Tim said he would call me last night and didn’t. “Oh, dear,” he says, his expectant smile turning to sorrow.

I wait for more. It doesn’t come.

“He died in his sleep,” I say.

“Well, that’s a comfort, then, isn’t it? Better than having him put down, I’d imagine.” He glances at his watch.

“Do you have to go?” I ask brusquely.

“No, no. I’ve got a bit.” He sits back and folds his hands. “Well. You must be feeling quite sad.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“I’m sorry, then.” He smiles kindly, but for the first time ever, I get the feeling that he’s not really listening.

“Father Tim,” I say, “do you think animals go to heaven?” The question comes only from my desire to engage him, not from any spiritual need. I know exactly where Colonel is.

“I’ve been asked that before,” he answers thoughtfully. “And while you might say that though God created them, the truth is that they don’t have the ability to make a choice. That’s a gift God only gave to man, Maggie, free will, don’t you know. And so—”

He keeps talking. I stop listening.

Father Tim is not going to comfort me. He’s not going to say something that’s tender, compassionate and insightful. He’s off on some tangent about church teachings, ignoring my sadness, oblivious to my irritation.

“Okay, whatever,” I interrupt. “Listen, I have to run.”

“Maggie,” he says, standing. “I’m terribly sorry.” He folds me into a hug. It doesn’t do much for me today, but I soften a little. At least he’s trying.

“Thanks, Father Tim,” I say, extricating myself. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mrs. Plutarski doesn’t acknowledge me as I come out, choosing instead to bustle frantically around the room to show just how busy they are. “Father Tim, you’ve really got to get going,” she calls out for extra measure. I hate her.

I walk home slowly. My eyes automatically check for Colonel at each corner, and I almost expect a nose to bump reassuringly against my hand.

Mrs. K. is lying in wait for me. The second my foot hits the step, she opens her door. “Hello, dear,” she says.

“Hi, Mrs. K.,” I say. The last thing I want to do is cut her toenails or plunge her toilet. “Everything okay?”

“Well, yes, Maggie, for me, at any rate. Here. I baked today. I can’t remember the last time I baked. These are for you.” She hands me a paper plate of peanut butter cookies, the crisscross marks sparkling with sugar. Her wizened, soft face is so kind and sweet that my eyes instantly fill.

“Now, you probably need some time alone, so I won’t keep you,” she says. “But I’m here if you need me.” She squeezes my arm and closes the door.

I open the door to my apartment and step in, then stand for a minute, facing my loss. I’ve never come home and not had Colonel either with me or here to greet me. His bowl is still there, still filled with kibbles. His doggy bed, worn on one side where he draped his paw over the side these many years, seems enormously empty.

 

A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, I’m in my oldest, most comfortable flannel pajamas. Winged blue coffee cups float over an orange background, a color combination that explains why I got them for three dollars. Two inches of my ankle stick out, and my bosom—or lack thereof—is now coated with peanut butter cookie crumbs. Exhausted but not sleepy, I listlessly watch the Red Sox blow a four-run lead. My mother hates me, my father’s disappearing, my sister’s perfect, and hey. Let’s not forget that my dog is dead. In a word, I’m not feeling too chipper. Of course, that’s when someone knocks on the door.

I heave myself off the couch. Probably Jonah, I think. But it’s not. It’s the last thing I need. Malone.

I open the door. “Malone, it’s not the best time for me,” I say, looking at his chest.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he answers, pushing past me.

Why is he here? Do we need to break up? Did we have a relationship that actually requires a breakup scene? “Look,” I say, but I’m talking to his back because he’s ignoring me and going into the kitchen. Taking off his coat, even. The nerve. And opening a cabinet. Pretty rude, if you ask me. I stay where I am, hands on my hips. If he wants a fight, he’s in for it. I am in no mood for shit today, as Mommy Dearest could attest. This has been a piss-poor day, and my throat grows tight with anger.

“Malone, I really don’t want you—”

Malone comes back in the living room with two glasses of what looks and smells like scotch. He hands one to me, then clinks his glass against mine. “To Colonel. He was a great dog, Maggie.”

Whatever hardness I’m feeling crumbles like a sand castle. I cover my eyes, which have instantly filled with tears. “Malone…” I whisper. He puts his arms around me, kisses my head, and the kindness of the small gesture just destroys me. My fists clench in his shirt, and I sob against his chest.

“Jonah told me,” he says, kissing me again. “Here, take a drink. You’ll feel better.”

It’s one of his longer speeches. I obey, wincing as I swallow. Then he leads me to the couch and sits down, pulling me with him, tucking my head against his shoulder. My tears leak out, wetting the wool of his sweater, and I hiccup occasionally. We sit there like that for a long time, watching the Sox lose, not saying anything. I sip the drink, feeling a pleasant warmth grow in my middle. Malone’s fingers play idly in my hair, and I’m curled against his side. My eyes begin to burn, my thoughts grow sketchy and jumbled.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up, I’m in bed, the covers pulled up to my chin. My arm reaches out automatically, and I do touch a warm, solid figure, but it’s not Colonel, of course. It’s Malone. He’s lying on top of the covers, fully dressed. The moonlight that pours through the window allows me to see that he’s awake.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi,” he says.

“Did you carry me to bed?”

He nods once.

“You’re pretty strong, then,” I say, and he smiles, tugging my heart.

He reaches out and pushes a strand of hair back from my face, his smile fading. “Maggie,” he says, his voice as gravelly as the stones at Jasper Beach, “the other night, when you came over…I wasn’t exactly at my best.”

My goodness. An apology. “I think you’re making up for it now,” I tell him.

“Can you spend the day with me tomorrow?” he asks, still playing with my hair.

A date, I think. He wants to take me on a date. Octavio and Judy can run the place without me for a day. It’s been known to happen. “Sure.” My eyes are getting tired again. “Do you want to come under the covers?” I murmur. “It’s pretty chilly.”

The bed squeaks as he gets off it. I hear his clothes rustle, but I can’t keep my eyes open another minute. He slides under the covers with me, minus his sweater, though the jeans and shirt remain. He pulls me against him, and I slip my hand under his shirt against his warm skin. Malone kisses my forehead, and in another minute, I’m asleep.