He never approached me for food. He never begged for attention. He simply stayed near Caleb.
I began bringing dog treats in my purse.
He accepted them cautiously.
“You’re getting expensive,” I told him one morning.
His tail tapped the grass once.
That tiny movement stayed with me all day.
Still, his presence bothered me in a way I couldn’t explain.
Not because I disliked him.
Quite the opposite.
I had begun looking for him every Sunday.
What unsettled me was how specific his behavior seemed.
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?”
