VI.

Rodger waited patiently, or at least he liked to think so, thanks very much, by the door, the leash in his mouth. on Tuesdays they walked to Bickham Park to watch the old families come and go, the children skate down the lane on their toes, and the leaves changing color. Marge had once been told that you could hear them change. she knew, of course, that one could not in fact hear the colors of the leaves changing, but as she slammed the imprudent (begrudged) door, threw on her felt-tipped pen purple coat, and headed out the gate, she listened for the sighs and whispers that only secrets bring, that no one knows, and that she would never tell. Rodger was looking forward to the stroll and could not bring himself to tell her that she had in fact left the ice box open and the back door ajar. they plodded onward, the fallen soldiers now brown. They crunched and exploded under Marge’s sturdy boots and as they came into sight of the heavenly oak, one could not help but notice the quickening of her toes or the rise and fall of her shoulders in expectation. a triumphant smile. a secret victory, marge thought. a treasured friend. Rodger lightened his step and shook out his coat. They could walk to Bickham tomorrow, he supposed, for they headed in the wrong direction, and who was he to say anything. he was, after all, only a dog.