But every time I slowed down, the dog kept moving.
There was something about the certainty in his steps that kept pulling me forward.
The neighborhood gradually changed.
The lawns became smaller.
Paint peeled from porch railings.
Several cars sat beneath faded covers.
A bicycle missing its front wheel leaned against one fence.
The dog crossed another street without even slowing down.
I hurried after him.
“Where are you going?” I whispered.
Of course, he didn’t answer.
Nearly 20 minutes later, he stopped in front of a small, run-down house at the very end of a dead-end street.
He scratched twice at the front door.
Then he sat down and waited.
I stopped near the sidewalk.
My heartbeat had quickened.
The house was narrow and weathered.
One shutter hung crooked.
The porch steps were cracked along the edges.
Yet the dog looked completely comfortable.
Almost as though he had done this many times before.
