Cynthia J. Simmons

My neighbor asked me to take her dog for a walk last Tuesday. Then she handed me his leash and started crying. Mrs. Bennett is eighty-three. She's lived next door for as long as I've been in this neighborhood. Her dog, Murphy, is a twelve-year-old black-and-tan dachshund with a white face and a terrible habit of barking at bicycles. I've walked him occasionally when she's had doctor's appointments. Last Tuesday, she told me her daughter was coming to move her into an assisted living facility. She'd fallen twice in the past month, and living alone wasn't safe anymore. The facility didn't allow pets. I asked what would happen to Murphy. She looked down at him. "I was hoping you might keep him." I didn't know what to say. I've never owned a dog. I work full-time, and I hadn't planned on getting one. She said her daughter had found a rescue organization willing to take him. Then she added, "But he's never lived anywhere else." Murphy was sitting beside her slippers, watching us. She handed me a little notebook. Inside were pages about his food, his medications, and which neighbors had dogs he didn't like. One page said he preferred sleeping beside the bedroom door. At the bottom, she'd written, "He gets frightened during thunderstorms. Please stay close." I told her I needed to think about it. She nodded. Then she asked whether I'd take Murphy around the block. "Just like you usually do." We walked past the same houses we always passed. Murphy stopped at every mailbox. When we got back, Mrs. Bennett was still standing on her porch. She hadn't gone inside.