Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

When the dog returned with the Frisbee after the second toss, the woman ignored it and the dog fell into place behind her, matching her pace. She marched along, the actions of her stick serving to speed her up in an unexpected way. When she came to a young, barren cottonwood, she took the stick and batted it about the lower branches as if checking the tree’s sturdiness or maybe trying to shake something out. The dog sat down and looked expectantly up into the tree, the chewed-up Frisbee hanging in his mouth.

The woman moved on down the trail. When she was exactly opposite Gene, on the other side of the pond, she stopped again and seemed to be taking in the view of the mountains. The dog sat beside her and dropped the disc. The sun shone above her head and in the far-off distance you could see Long’s Peak. She and the dog stood as still as icons. They might have been praying.

Watching her with her dog, Gene could not help thinking about Vicky, and he would have given anything for her to be there with him, to be able to say to her how lovely she would be in twenty years and how grateful he would be to still be with her. It came to him in a great surge, tears distorting his view while his throat constricted around a huge dry lump.

Gene leaned back against the top of the picnic table and drank the last of his soda. He knew he was feeling overly sentimental; he knew he should just get on with his life. The last swig of soda was warm and sickeningly sweet. He carefully replaced the cap and set the bottle on the bench beside him. He looked up at the blue sky, trying to enjoy the day, the extraordinary warmth, the clear sky, the sense that spring would, after all, eventually arrive. He knew he should be grateful for the day, but it was like a picture in a magazine and his senses were dead to all but a dull perception that he was in the picture.

He heard the jangle of chains and to his right he saw the black dog come trotting up the trail with the Frisbee in his mouth. The dog saw Gene and stopped uncertainly and looked back to where the old woman was emerging from the copse of small, barren cottonwood trees just up the trail. She was moving a little slower now, using the walking stick to probe the way ahead. When the dog appeared sure that she was coming, he resumed his trot, heading straight for Gene.

Gene expected the woman to say something to the dog, to call it back, but she seemed unconcerned. He wasn’t really a dog person, so he was uncertain about what to do when the dog came within a few feet and dropped the Frisbee and looked at him. The Frisbee was faded and worn and had numerous tooth holes in it. Gene wouldn’t have touched it if you’d paid him. The dog stared at him. It had gray in its muzzle and rheumy eyes.

“Nice old guy,” he said. “Nice dog.”

“Stewart is always in the mood to play,” the woman said, close enough now for her strong voice to carry over the fifty yards. “I suppose that is one of the privileges of being a dog: You don’t have to mature and in fact are a more pleasant companion if you retain your puppy qualities.”

Gene nodded, trying to get a line on the way the woman spoke. It almost sounded foreign, it was so graceful and dignified. He saw the careful arrangement of her silver hair and nice coat and tasteful slacks and thought that her voice and diction matched her perfectly. She was beautiful, mature, and playful, all at the same time. Just the way Vicky would be when she was older — he just knew it.

“I guess it’s a nice day to be a puppy,” Gene said. It wasn’t the way he felt, but it sounded right.

“Yes indeed. Stewart and I come here every day and this is indeed a ‘good one,’ ” she said, not really looking at him. She stooped down gingerly, using the stick for support, and picked up the Frisbee. Steadying herself, she gave it a flip up the trail. The dog, Stewart, took out after it, nudging it along with his nose until he was able to get a purchase with his teeth and pick it up. Rather than returning it, he rambled on ahead. The woman continued on too, looking ahead at the dog or something beyond, perhaps the river.

Gene watched her move out of sight, back along the river toward the bridge. The feeling of loss compounded itself in him and he felt himself sinking lower and lower. It just wasn’t fair. He felt only love and it brought him nothing but pain. It wasn’t fair at all. He grabbed the bottle beside him and tried to take a drink. It somehow angered him to find that it was empty, as if someone else had drunk it. Suddenly furious, he threw the bottle high into the air, out over the pond. His arm wasn’t very strong and the bottle didn’t travel far, but still he expected it to break. It angered him more when it merely rang hollowly, bounced twice, and then spun on its side.