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Sometimes it was all a good dog could do not to run. But Barnaby waited.
The gate was open all the time now. Somewhere beyond, all the good things were waking after the cold--the hills where he and the boy chased butterflies, the creek where they waited for fish, the flower fields just now humming with bees--but Barnaby could still hear the boy. The beloved sound of him came not from out there, or even from the house, but from somewhere inside himself where memories still lingered.
The other children came by in the afternoons, sometimes with treats, as they did today. As if somehow, they knew the boy had been remiss. They tried everything to draw him out to play, but he had to keep watch. It wouldn't do for the boy to come and find his Barnaby gone.
So Barnaby stayed and the children usually went, but today, not until the woman came out. Her red-rimmed eyes were swollen and challenging, her quiet impossible to bear. The children didn't stay for long.
Then she turned her watchfulness on Barnaby, waiting it seemed, for him to go too. But Barnaby couldn't bear to leave. Spring had no flavor without the boy.
He retreated to the shadows under the porch, hidden away with all the old toys. But each time the backdoor opened, he was there. Today it was just one more time; the woman with food and water for the day. She never brought hugs or smiles anymore, or treats like the boy always shared. She came and she went leaving little behind, gone back inside where the man waited, too. They sat in there all the time now like holes. Sometimes at night, Barnaby could smell their despair.
Still, all the old toys were tucked safely away, and everything beyond the gate seemed in place. If all these remained then the boy must, too. How could they exist without him?
As long as the backdoor still opened, the boy might come through, so in spite of the smells of spring, Barnaby waited.
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