Chapter 12 - Buddy’s Bowl Became Evidence of Something Different
Months later, I found the same metal dog bowl in the garage.
I had put it there after the patio incident because I could not look at:
it.
Ridiculous.
It was a stainless-steel bowl.
Buddy had three others.
Lily saw me holding it.
“That’s the one.”
“Yes.”
“Was there medicine in it?”
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“But Vanessa kicked it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she was scared by what you said.”
“So Buddy wasn’t smelling medicine?”
“Not necessarily.”
I wanted this part clear.
“Buddy may have reacted to Vanessa, the argument, a smell he recognized or just the way everyone was acting.”
“He isn’t a doctor.”
Lily smiled.
“No.”
“Very disappointing.”
Then:
“But I was still right.”
“Yes.”
“You noticed a pattern.”
That distinction mattered.
Buddy did not solve:
the case.
Lily did.
The dog made her pay attention.
Then she told me something I had never heard.
The first time she became dizzy after dinner, Buddy followed her upstairs and slept outside her room.
Vanessa tried to move:
him.
He refused.
Lily remembered because she thought he knew she felt sick.
Maybe dogs notice changes in behavior or scent.
Maybe he simply loved:
her.
Either way, what mattered was that Lily felt someone stayed.
That night I washed the old bowl.
Put it back beside Buddy’s water.
No shrine.
No evidence display.
Buddy immediately used it.
Normal.
That was what I wanted.
Then Lily asked:
“Can Vanessa ever come back?”
“No.”
“To the house?”
“No.”
“To see me?”
“Not unless there is ever a legal and clinical reason that is safe and you want it when you’re older.”
She nodded.
Clear.
Then:
“Do I have to forgive her?”
“No.”
“What if I do someday?”
“That’s also yours.”
She thought.
“I don’t.”
May you like
Fair.
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