Page 79 of The Ballad of Us
Twenty-Six
RHEA
Waking up without Gray feels wrong now, like trying to drink decaf coffee when you need the real thing. We still have our own places, which feels important even though we spend most nights together. Keeping separate spaces helps us hold onto our own identities and independence. Still, each morning without him makes me feel quietly vulnerable, a reminder that life is easier when it's shared. This morning, he had an early sponsor meeting, so I woke up alone for the first time in weeks. His absence is obvious, making me miss the sense of safety I feel when we're together.
I'm opening Mountain Mornings, fumbling with the keys in the pre-dawn darkness, when I hear a soft whimper from the shadows beside the front door. My first thought is that someone's child has gotten lost, but when I flip on the porch light, I find myself looking down at the saddest pair of brown eyes I've ever seen.
The dog is clearly older, with a white muzzle and a calm, dignified look. He’s huge, though, his head almost reaching my shoulders. He seems to be a massive, overgrown Pitbull mix—stocky and solid, but much too thin, especially for his giant body size. When I crouch down, I notice he smells faintly of old leather, which makes me think of my favorite old chair. His white coat is clean enough that he probably hasn't been alone for long, but he has no collar or tags. The way he sits quietly by my door makes it seem like he's been waiting for someone to notice him.
“Hey there, sweet boy,” I say softly, crouching down to his level. “Where did you come from?”
He doesn't move toward me, but his tail gives a tentative wag that breaks my heart. This is a dog who has been disappointed before, having learned not to expect too much from humans, yet still hopes they might surprise him.
Once I've propped the coffee shop door open, I begin my morning routine, keeping one eye on my visitor. He doesn't try to come inside, doesn't beg or make a nuisance of himself. He just watches with patient intelligence as I turn on machines and arrange pastries. I decide to call him Duke for now, fitting the regal, ginormous dog.
When Emma arrives an hour later, she finds me sitting on the front step, contemplating sharing a blueberry muffin with my new friend. I pause, holding the muffin in the paper wrapper. For a moment, I hesitate, unsure if sharing breakfast means letting this new soul into my life. Memories of past losses and fears of becoming too attached resurface. But I break off a piece and offer it to Duke, and his grateful eyes make me realize I have been holding onto these fears for too long. The way he looks at me makes my doubts fade. I notice Emma's amused look as she walks up.
“Well, that's not a health code violation at all,” she observes with amusement.
“He was here when I arrived. Look at him, Emma. How could I not share my breakfast?”
Emma studies the dog with the practical eye of someone who's dealt with strays before. “He's obviously been someone's pet. Too well-mannered to be feral, but he's underweight.”
“I was thinking of taking him to the studio with me this afternoon. The guys are putting the final changes on the album, and maybe one of them recognizes him.”
“Or maybe, you're looking for an excuse to show up at the studio with a critter that will immediately endear itself to every man in that building.” She smirks.
“That's not... okay, that might be partly true. But mostly I'm worried about leaving him here alone.” I don’t like the idea of him being all by himself in this big, perilous world.
By afternoon, after a busy morning at the shop, my new canine companion has charmed every customer who comes in. Mrs. Patterson brought him a bowl of water and called him 'a distinguished gentleman down on his luck.' Jake Morrison even sketched him while waiting for his latte, capturing the gentle look in his eyes.
Later, when it's time to leave for the studio, I call Duke. “Come on, Duke,” I say as we walk the three blocks to the studio. “Let's go meet the boys.”
Belvedere Street Studios is humming with activity when we arrive. I can hear music floating through the walls, a melody that sounds like a beautifully haunting song, rather than the experimental noodling that characterizes most of their recent sessions.
Gray calls out my name when I walk in and comes over to kiss me hello. The studio is bustling with energy, filled with the sounds of guitars, rhythmic percussion, and a deep bass line. The aroma of fresh coffee lingers in the air. “Perfect timing. We just finished the final mix of the last track,” he says, his voice almost lost in the background noise.
I want to hear about the final track, but then Duke walks in, his presence drawing everyone's attention. For a second, I worry he might get tangled in wires or cause a person with allergies to sneeze, but he moves carefully. It's obvious that everyone finds him instantly likable. He brings a calm vibe to the busy studio.
“And who is this distinguished visitor?” Gray asks, immediately dropping to one knee.
Duke doesn't hesitate. He walks straight to Gray and sits beside him, as if requesting permission to be petted. When Gray reaches out to scratch behind his ears, Duke's entire body relaxes with contentment.
“This is Duke. He was waiting outside Mountain Mornings this morning. No collar, no tags, and he's too thin.” My heart breaks all over again, wondering how hungry he must be.
“Hey there, Duke,” Gray says softly, and the tone in his voice suggests he understands exactly what it's like to be lost and hoping someone will take you in. “You're a handsome boy, aren't you?”
Duke's response is to lean heavily against Gray's leg, as if he's found exactly what he was looking for.
“Oh, he's perfect,” Cody declares, abandoning the grand piano, which is housed in the middle of the live room, to join the impromptu dog-greeting committee.
What follows is fifteen minutes of Duke making his rounds to each band member, sweetly requesting attention and receiving it in abundance. He seems particularly drawn to Zep, who sits cross-legged on the floor so Duke can settle against his side. Duke gives Zep a slow, trusting blink before gently placing a soft paw on his knee, as if sealing a silent pact of companionship.
“He's got excellent taste in humans. Very discerning,” Andrew observes.
“We should take him to the vet to check for a microchip and make sure he's healthy.” Gray is back to scratching Duke’s ears after Zep has left to take a phone call.
A short walk takes us to Dr. Michael Peterson's veterinary clinic, situated exactly two blocks from the studio, tucked between a hardware store and a small gift shop specializing in mountain crafts. The waiting room smells of antiseptic and pet treats, with walls adorned with photos of satisfied patients, ranging from prize-winning cattle to a pet iguana.
