Chapter 2: The Number on the Tag
Ellen crossed the street carrying the reading glasses she kept on a cord around her neck.
At seventy, she was retired from thirty-eight years of elementary school teaching and had an almost professional resistance to neighborhood gossip.
She disliked drama.
She disliked unfairness more.
“What’s going on?”
Diane answered before Walter could.
“He found Charlie and refuses to give him back.”
Ellen looked at the dog.
Then at Walter.
“Charlie?”
Walter held up the silver tag.
“It says Buddy.”
Ellen adjusted her glasses.
Diane folded her arms.
“Dogs lose collars. People put the wrong tags on them. You know that.”
It was possible.
Walter knew that.
A collar alone did not settle ownership.
But Diane’s reaction still bothered him.
“Do you have a picture of Charlie?” Ellen asked.
Diane looked offended.
“Of course I do.”
She reached into her crossbody bag and took out her phone.
For several seconds, she scrolled.
Then several more.
Walter waited.
Buddy sat against his boot.
Finally Diane held up the screen.
The photograph showed a golden dog standing near a patio chair.
Walter leaned closer.
Similar coat.
Similar size.
But the photograph was taken from several yards away.
The dog’s chest was partly hidden.
Walter couldn’t see whether it had Buddy’s distinctive white patch.
“When was that taken?” Ellen asked.
“What difference does that make?”
“It shouldn’t,” Ellen said.
Diane locked the phone.
“He’s my sister’s dog. She’s out of town, and I’ve been watching him. He got loose yesterday.”
Walter’s suspicion eased slightly.
That was plausible.
“Then your sister will have veterinary records.”
Diane’s expression changed again.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“No one’s interrogating you,” Walter said. “We’re making sure the dog goes home.”
“He has a home.”
“Good. Then this should be easy.”
Walter turned the silver tag over.
A phone number was engraved beneath the name.
The last few digits were scratched but readable.
Diane stepped forward.
“You don’t need to call that.”
Walter looked at her.
It was the first thing she had said that made Ellen’s posture change.
“Why not?” Ellen asked.
“Because it could be an old number.”
“Then nobody answers,” Walter said.
Diane shook her head.
“This is ridiculous.”
Walter took out his phone.
He dialed.
Buddy watched him.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Then someone answered.
A woman’s voice, elderly and cautious.
“Hello?”
Walter turned slightly away from Diane.
“Ma’am, my name is Walter Hayes. I’m sorry to bother you. I found a golden retriever mix wearing a red collar. The tag says Buddy, and your number is on it.”
Nothing came through the phone for several seconds.
Then Walter heard a breath.
Not surprise.
Something closer to disbelief.
“Where are you?”
“Willow Ridge. Near the community green.”
Another silence.
Then:
“Is there a white patch on his chest?”
Walter looked down.
“Yes.”
“And a little scar above his right back paw?”
Walter crouched.
He carefully parted the fur.
There it was.
A thin pale line.
“Yes.”
The woman began crying.
Walter’s grip tightened around the phone.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You found him.”
Walter looked toward Diane.
She had already begun backing toward the sidewalk.
“Ma’am,” Walter said, “is Buddy your dog?”
“He was my husband’s.”
Walter felt Buddy press against him again.
The woman continued.
“My husband died fourteen months ago. Buddy disappeared three weeks later.”
Walter stopped breathing for a moment.
Fourteen months.
Not yesterday.
Behind him, Ellen said Diane’s name.
Diane turned.
“I’m not doing this.”
Walter covered the phone.
“Diane.”
She kept walking.
“Who is Charlie?”
Diane stopped near the sidewalk.
She did not turn around.
The woman on the phone was still speaking.
Walter brought the phone back to his ear.
“My name is Margaret Doyle,” she said. “Please don’t let anyone take him. I’m coming.”
Walter looked at the dog.
Buddy was staring down the street.
As if somewhere inside him, after more than a year, he still remembered the way home.
