The cemetery was large. Hundreds of graves stretched across several sections. Families came and went. People brought flowers, balloons, photographs, and little decorations.
Yet the dog always chose Caleb.
I asked the groundskeeper about him once.
He was an older man named Edwin who had worked there long enough to recognize most regular visitors.
I nodded toward the dog.
“Does he belong to someone?”
Edwin glanced over.
He just shrugged and said the dog had been showing up for a while, and nobody seemed to know where he came from.
“Nobody feeds him?”
“Not that I know of.”
“He doesn’t stay here?”
Edwin shook his head.
That only made me more curious.
I began watching the dog whenever I visited.
He always seemed calm.
But every so often he would stare toward the cemetery entrance as if waiting for something.
Then, before I left, he would disappear.
I never saw where he went.
One Sunday I walked back to my car and found myself standing beside the driver’s door without opening it.
I looked toward the cemetery.
The dog was still there.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, that bothered me all week.
Last Sunday, instead of leaving when I usually did, I stayed back and watched from a distance as the dog finally stood up, stretched, and started trotting toward the cemetery gates.
I followed him.
I don’t fully know why.
Something in me just needed to know where he went.
I kept enough distance that he wouldn’t notice me.
At least, I hoped he wouldn’t.
He crossed the road outside the cemetery and continued down the sidewalk.
I expected him to wander.
He didn’t.
He moved with total purpose, never hesitating at a single turn, cutting through streets I didn’t recognize, past a shuttered gas station, down a narrow alley behind a row of houses I’d never had a reason to drive past before.
More than once I considered turning around.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
I was a grown woman following a stray dog through unfamiliar streets on a Sunday afternoon.
But every time I slowed down, the dog kept moving.
And something about the certainty in his steps pulled me after him.
The neighborhood gradually changed.
The lawns became smaller.
Paint peeled from porch railings.
Several cars sat under faded covers.
A bicycle without a front wheel leaned against one fence.
The dog crossed another street without pausing.
I hurried after him.
“Where are you going?” I whispered.
Of course, he didn’t answer.
