The Old Dog
When I returned to the village that snowy winter, Old Huang, the yellow dog who had grown up with Grandmother, could barely see or hear. Yet in the heavy fog he led me to her grave and back, steady as if walking a road he had always known. On the third day he lay down by the woodpile and closed his eyes for good, as though going to keep Grandmother company.
That winter, when I went back to the village, Old Huang could hardly walk anymore.
He was a yellow village dog, his coat gone grey, his eyes clouded, one ear folded down from a fight long ago. He had been there as long as I could remember. Grandmother used to say he was two years older than me.
Grandmother passed last year. On the night she left, Old Huang did not bark. He simply lay by the threshold, chin resting on his paws, and did not move the whole night. The old folks in the village said a dog understands people; he knew.
I got home at dusk, snow falling. Old Huang crept out from behind the woodpile and sniffed my trouser leg. He made a low sound in his throat, as if he knew me, or half knew me. Then he turned and walked toward the house, stopping every few steps to look back, as if to tell me to follow.
Inside it was cold; the fire in the stove had long gone out. I found the cured meat Grandmother had left, sliced a plate. Old Huang lay at the foot of the table and watched me eat, but would not eat himself. He was old; his teeth were loose and the meat was too tough for him.
The next morning a thick fog came down. I wanted to climb the back slope to tend Grandmother's grave, but the fog was so heavy I could not see three steps ahead. The moment I stepped past the door, Old Huang stood up and nudged my leg with his head. He walked in front, nose to the ground, leading me up the slope step by step. Usually he swayed when he walked, but now he moved steady, as if he knew a road he had never walked.
At the grave he lay down and pressed his face against the stone, and stayed a long while. Snow dust blew onto his back and he did not shake it off.
Coming back the fog was heavier. My foot slipped and I missed a step; Old Huang turned and caught the corner of my coat in his mouth, pulling me onto firm ground. In that moment I understood, it was not a road he was leading me along. He was standing in for Grandmother, seeing her grandchild safely home, the way she no longer could.
That night he slept just inside the door. I heard his breathing, very light, as if afraid to wake someone.
On the third day the sky cleared. Old Huang would neither eat nor drink. He lay down by the woodpile where he always rested, closed his eyes, and did not open them again. The villagers all said the old dog had gone to keep Grandmother company.
I buried him on the back slope, beside Grandmother's grave. As the earth was covering him, the wind stopped for a breath, as if someone had answered, softly.
After that, every time I came back to the village, at dusk I would see an empty patch by the door, as if the mark of where he used to lie was still there.