I walk my dog before sunrise because the world hasn’t decided what it is yet.
No traffic. No voices. Just dew, breath, and the sound of paws on gravel.
That’s when he started appearing.
Six months ago.
Not every day at first. Or maybe I just didn’t notice. Tall. Slim. Too straight-backed for that hour. A black dog at his side—no leash, no sound, no interest in mine. They moved like they’d already agreed on where they were going.
The first time, I thought nothing of it.
The second time, I adjusted my route.
That’s when it became a pattern.
If I went clockwise around the loop, he’d pass me near the culvert as I was leaving in the truck—already there, standing as if he’d been waiting for something else to finish.
If I went counterclockwise, he’d come toward me, same distance, same pace, like we were linked by invisible spokes.
I tested it.
I reversed my walk mid-stride once. Turned around abruptly, dog confused, heart ticking faster than my feet.
Ten minutes later—he emerged from a different path entirely.
Not rushed. Not surprised. As if that had always been the plan.
The wooded trail was my last experiment. It’s narrow, bends inward, eats sound. I stayed in there longer than usual. Twenty minutes. No sign of him.
Relief is a dangerous thing.
As I reached the exit, sunlight just starting to thin the dark—he was there. Already walking. Already aligned with me. Same distance. Same silence.
I stopped walking for a full minute once.
He did too.
Not looking at me. Not looking away. Just… paused. Like a bookmark waiting to be picked up again.
After that, I avoided him. Changed times. Changed routes. Left early. Left late. Walked faster. Walked slower.
Didn’t matter.
He was never ahead of me.
Never behind.
Always exactly where the walk allowed him to be.
No phone. No watch. No sound from his dog—not even breath. I started noticing details you only see when fear sharpens your eyes: his shoes never scuffed, his dog’s shadow always too clean, his steps never crunching gravel.
Six months in, I realized something worse.
I wasn’t seeing him anymore.
I was anticipating him.
I’d feel the air change.
My dog would slow half a second before I did.
And there he’d be—sliding into the world like he’d been folded there all along.
This morning, the cold cut deeper than usual. Frost whispering underfoot. My dog tense.
I saw him ahead.
For the first time, I didn’t change course.
As we passed, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to smell winter and old leaves, I finally spoke.
“Hi, Ernie. Little chilly out today. See ya tomorrow.”
He smiled.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Just relieved.
“See you,” he said.
His dog finally looked at mine.
And for the first time in six months—
they wagged their tails at the same time.
😄🌫️🐕🦺
The End.