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Shadow uncurls. Tags rattle. Nails click. Heavy hand settles between pricked ears. Tail wags. Dawn breaks. The day starts.
Ace backs away from the bed to give Bruce space to swing bare legs over the edge and set feet on the thick rug. He sits while he watches the old man stretch his shoulders back, breathe deep, roll his neck out. Crick, crack, pop. Ace’s head tilts curiously. Do the sounds seem louder today?
Bruce reaches for the polished cane leaning against his nightstand, his hand settling on the wooden handle only to pause… only to wish… The moment passes and the cane is pulled close. Bruce leans against it as he rises, a final crick sounding from his cartilage-worn knees. Ace steps in, his nose grazing an offending knee, the damp imprint lingering. He doesn’t require a command to stay close to Bruce’s heels. He follows the path to the bathroom then the closet, his short nails clicking against any patches of hardwood flooring not covered by rugs.
His stomach grumbles, but his patience is endless. He wags his tail when Bruce makes his slow trek towards the bedroom door. Time to start the day.
Click-click. Shuffle-shuffle. Ace maintains a step or two behind Bruce as he navigates the stairs with his cane. The old man refuses to use the elevator. But Ace is glad for it. What? He’s supposed to trust a couple of thin wires to lift and lower a cramped box dozens of feet up and down a narrow shaft? Bah! Humans…
So, he happily follows Bruce descending the carpeted stairs, each step careful and steady. This is what his patience is for.
It’s when they reach the landing on the second floor that his nose picks up the familiar scent wafting from below. The tip of his tail wags in recognition, but his feet patiently maintain the pace set by Bruce. A dozen more steps and they’re on the first floor. The quiet inhale reaches Ace’s ears, his brown eyes lifting to watch the measured exhale follow, an attempt to relieve the tension burrowed deep into Bruce’s shoulders. Fingers find his muzzle. Muzzle pushes further into those fingers. Today is one of his harder days.
Tap. Click-click. Tap. Onwards they continue.
The soft though baritone voice greets their guest behind the kitchen counter, her movements swift and easy as she sets out a modest continental breakfast. Jazz calls Ace’s name, kibble clatters into the metal bowl, saliva pools under his tongue. But he doesn’t leap to his dish like he does on the good days. He hesitates by Bruce’s heel long enough for Jazz to notice. To understand.
She gives him a reassuring smile. Message received.
“Chow time, Ace.”
He approaches, his nose sniffing the tantalizing kibble in the shiny bowl, his eyes focusing on Bruce easing into the barstool at the kitchen island. Despite his nose being buried in his breakfast, it can still discern the tea Jazz is steeping for Bruce. It’s the one that eases his pain on days like this.
This is why he likes Jazz. She hears him.
His tentative bites transform into ravenous ones, the savory, hard pellets drawing him in. He’s always loved his food. The kitchen fills with the sounds of clinking porcelain, quiet human voices, and rhythmic clattering of tags against bowl.
And then the food is gone all too quick. Ace’s pink tongue running over black nose and short whiskers, cleaning up any stray crumbs before he trots over to Bruce’s side. He sits, tip of skinny tail wagging, large brown eyes focused on the side of Bruce’s face. A second later Bruce’s blue eyes meet his gaze, the crow’s feet softening imperceptibly.
This is why he loves Bruce. He sees him.
“Patrol time, bud,” Jazz announces.
He knows those words. They get him jumping to his feet, tail wagging with vigor, paws dancing circles around Jazz as she navigates her way to the French doors that open up to the rest of the property. Acres and acres of wilderness, of scents, of instinct. He prances ahead of her.
She’s not the one who needs his patience.
Nose to the ground, he inhales the evidence of the previous night. Raccoons, rabbits, mice, deer, of course bats and… oh, an owl! He lingers on the regurgitated owl pellet discarded at the base of the leafy maple, his sophisticated nose identifying the species – a vole – and estimating the time – several hours old. After getting all the information he can out of the digested carcass, he marks the tree the only way dogs know how. A message for the owl.
‘I see you. I smell you. Know I’m here.’
He trots on, his nose locking on to more new scents that weren’t there the day before. This is his patrol. He marks a couple more times on the outskirts of his border.
‘This is my domain. This is my home.’
His nose leads him to the edge of the property, his trot springy, his stride long, his tags jingling; but he doesn’t venture far – not today – ensuring the mansion stays within sight. He reaches his final stop for the morning: the wrought iron gate at the end of the long driveway. He sits a few feet away from the locked gate flanked by massive stone columns, his gaze turning in the direction of any new scent the breeze kicks up. Spring flowers blossoming. Squirrels burying nuts. Birds building nests.
And then he hears it. His eyes focus ahead, anticipating the engine to grow louder as it chugs up the steep hill. This is part of their daily routine. Except on Sundays of course.
He doesn’t need to wait long before the white mail truck drives into view. Ace remains still, his eyes locked on the tiny woman clad in blue uniform and white cap, a short stack of letters in hand as she slips out of her seat. She marches forward, stopping on the other side of the fence. Her green eyes on Ace. Ace’s brown eyes on her. The mailbox slot embedded in the stone column squeaks open, the soft thud of paper hitting the metal bottom declaring the duty done. Then she pauses. She smiles. And Ace lets out a polite warning.
Boof.
‘That’s close enough, Ma’am.’
Her fingers tap the brim of her hat; a polite sign of acknowledgement. Diplomacy concluded, he waits for her to retreat to her truck, pull her seatbelt on and set off down the winding road, returning to wherever she came from.
With his territory attended to, he trots back up to the manor, sitting in front of the closed French doors and staring in at the occupants who haven’t noticed his return yet. He watches their mouths move, those nimble lips and adept tongues vocalizing in ways he wishes he could. His eyes remain focused on Bruce, his ears locked on that baritone voice that comes through despite the double-glazed windowpane. He’s deaf to every other noise surrounding him: leaves rustling, birds singing, Terry’s car pulling up the driveway on the other side of the mansion. The only time the tip of his tail twitches is at the sound of Bruce’s voice speaking. He waits quietly.
This is what his patience is for.
His unencumbered view of Bruce is blocked by a set of long legs, the dark denim covering them bringing Ace to lift his gaze higher to recognize Terry, his expression distracted by the conversation at hand. Pulling the door open, he grants Ace entrance into the kitchen. Not wasting a moment, he trots back up to Bruce’s side. Those thick fingers tousle the smooth fur of Ace’s head, his cool blue eyes softening at Ace’s jaw hanging slightly open to deliver a gentle smile.
The hand lifts off his head, but the warmth lingers.
The three voices take turns to speak, at times breaking to scoff or even laugh. Ace’s eyes remain on Bruce, his chin grazes his lap, his tail wags. And then there’s movement. Bruce rises to his feet, hiding his ache as he leans against his cane. Ace at his heels, Jazz and Terry following behind, their youthful banter filling the air as they make their way to the cave entrance through the grandfather clock. Bruce holds it open, Terry leads the way down, Jazz half a step behind him, Ace waiting for Bruce to step across the threshold. He looks up at Bruce, his eyes focused on the dark tunnel Jazz and Terry had already disappeared through. Ace follows his line of sight.
More stairs.
Bruce remains paused, his silence communicating the issue. Step forward and through the tunnel, or step to the left and take the elevator. Ace sits on his haunches, neatly tucking his front paws close to his hind ones, and lets out a quiet huff. The soft exhale brings Bruce to look down at him, focusing on those deep brown eyes staring back.
“Not yet, boy,” Bruce softly replies.
His cane taps forward, wood against stone. Stairs it is. This is what his patience is for.
He follows behind, one step at a time, Bruce relying on his cane instead of the handrail until he finally reaches the bottom. Tap, tap, tap and he eases into the cushioned leather chair set in front of the massive computer. Ace forgoes the plush dog bed several feet away, instead opting to curl up on the cold, rocky ground, his shoulder pressed against Bruce’s shoe. The trill of Bruce’s typing is interrupted when Terry appears from behind the alcoves, having changed from his street clothes to a set of workout shorts and shirt. Ace’s sleepy lids open to meet Terry’s gaze, chocolate eyes locked on ice blue ones for a fraction of a second. Long enough for Terry to pause, to notice.
This is why he respects Terry. He cares about him.
Terry’s blue eyes shift to the back of Bruce’s chair, his steps changing course to reach his side. He crouches down beside Ace, his long, calloused fingers massaging the thick neck.
“Things feeling okay, Bruce?” He quietly asks, his eyes trained on Ace’s shiny black coat.
“Yes,” comes the gruff reply.
Ace’s brow twitches. Terry’s fingers pass over his collar.
“Okay,” is the soft, patient reply.
The hand lifts away as Terry straightens up, doubling back to make his way to the medic bay. The sound of a cabinet softly closing brings Ace to lift his head, his tags rattling from the movement. Terry’s steps grow louder as he returns to Bruce’s side. He gently sets an orange prescription bottle down within Bruce’s reach before walking away, heading to the training levels below.
Bruce eyes the bright bottle with a gaze that could have mustered lasers to vaporize it. Celebrex. For arthritis. A very human condition.
The weight against his foot moves, shifting Bruce’s glare down to Ace’s waiting brown eyes.
“Not yet,” he says, but his voice betrays him.
Ace can hear the fear. Time has caught up.
He rests his chin on Bruce’s lap – on his ailing knee – and holds his gaze.
“I said not yet,” he repeats, but the chin presses deeper, the gaze more insistent.
This is what his patience is for.
Bruce’s chest deflates with a resigned sigh, his hand picking up the bottle. Yellow tabs drop onto his smooth palm before being tossed to the back of his throat. He sets the bottle down with a sharp clack, his eyes drifting back to Ace. The chin resettles on his thigh. Another sigh is drawn out; reluctance… then acceptance.
“It’s not easy,” Bruce says, his liver spotted hand resting gently on the top of Ace’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his fingers gently caressing his companion’s head.
Ace lets out an audible sigh, one that bounces off the cave walls and teases a wrinkled smile on Bruce’s face.
“Even in dog years, you’re still not this old,” he responds.
His tail wags, his face smiles. The tension seeps out of Bruce’s shoulders. He uses the handle of his cane to hook and drag the dog bed close, setting it right by his feet. His focus returns to the monitor while Ace curls up on the warm bed, tucking his nose against Bruce’s ankle and listening to the cave come alive. The squeaking bats, the clacking keyboard, the crackling police radio, the kids’ upbeat music echoing as they warm up before their patrol. He feels Bruce’s foot press against his shoulder, senses relief washing over his companion.
This is what he’s here for.