Several times he got up, walked quietly over, and checked to make sure the puppy was still breathing. The breaths were shallow, but steady, and that gave the old man a little hope.
By morning, to Frank’s great relief, the pup had made it through the night. He was lapping warm milk from a shallow dish, clumsy and messy and very much alive.
One busy week passed, then another, and before long a full month had gone by. In that short time the puppy filled out, got stronger, and turned into an energetic little rascal.
He first wobbled onto his short legs, then started trotting around the yard with growing confidence. Frank named him Fog, after the cold morning that had brought them together.
The name fit. The pup’s thick soft coat had a smoky gray color to it. He grew fast and gave his older rescuer something new to smile at every single day.
From a half-frozen scrap of life, he became a sturdy, sharp-eyed young dog. Fog’s brown eyes followed Frank with a kind of loyalty a man doesn’t forget.
The dog shadowed him everywhere, as if afraid to lose sight of him even for a minute. He went with him to the river, kept watch in the yard, and padded after him through the whole house.
In the evenings he settled close by Frank’s feet near the warm stove. It was as if the dog understood, in the simple way animals do, that the two of them had become each other’s people.
That quiet bond brought color back into Frank’s life. He started smiling again, talking to the dog, and even greeting neighbors now and then with something more than a grunt.
When the first hard frost came, the countryside around Mill Creek changed fast. The old willow branches along the river turned silver with ice in the pale winter sun.
Frank stacked plenty of firewood under the shed for the long season ahead. Fog watched the first snowflakes with open curiosity, snapping at them and bounding through the yard, leaving neat tracks behind him.
Winter came early that year and settled in for real, covering the frozen ground in a deep layer of bright, powdery snow.
