A dog named Serve came to our home when I was in the fifth grade of elementary school.

#nana56b


Synopsis

At dusk, as the cold winter wind blew through, I
stood alone on the train platform, clutching my
smartphone with trembling hands. The word “Mom”
appeared on the screen. What came through from the
other end was a sob that defied words.

“A-chan… Serve… just… passed away…”

In that instant, I felt as if the ground beneath my
feet were crumbling away with a loud crash. The warm
gaze she’d given me just a few minutes earlier, as
she watched me walk away, flashed through my mind.

Serve came to our home when I was in fifth grade. He
was a Golden Retriever with a golden coat and
jet-black eyes like jewels. My mother named that
puppy “Serve,” and he would always wag his tail
happily right in the middle of our family.

But a child’s enthusiasm is only so strong. At
first, I played with him enthusiastically, but
gradually I left the walks entirely up to my
father.

As I got deeper and deeper into club activities
in middle and high school, Serve’s priority in my
life kept dropping lower and lower.

“Serve, dinner’s ready.”

That one moment a day when I fed him was the only
connection I had with Serve. Occasionally, when I’d
remember to throw a ball for him, Serve would chase
after it with all his might, come back to me covered
in mud, and bring it to me. I’d take the
drool-covered ball, laughing and saying, “That’s
gross.”

While I was growing up as a matter of course, I might
have been pretending not to notice that Serve was
aging just as naturally.

When I moved out of the prefecture to attend junior
college, the distance between me and Serve became
insurmountable—both physically and emotionally. I
only went home a few times a year. Every time I
returned, Serve would greet me by wagging his tail
with his usual enthusiasm, but I’d just say,
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” give his big head a quick
pat, and rush off to meet up with friends.

One day, after I’d left my hometown to find a job
and was swamped with work, I received a rare phone
call from my mother.

“A-chan, you know, Serve has really gotten weak
lately… He doesn’t even want to go for walks
anymore. He might not have much time left.”

My mother’s voice trembled over the phone. But at
that moment, my mind was consumed by problems at
work, and I snapped back coldly.

“…Okay. I’ll be back for New Year’s, so it’ll
be fine until then, right?”

The image of Saabu inside me remained frozen in
time—always running around the yard, wagging his
tail vigorously. Perhaps I was afraid of the
reality of death intruding on my daily life.

It was the end of the year. When I opened the front
door of my parents’ house—having practically fled
back home—what awaited me was “silence.”

Normally, I would have heard the sound of his paws
scraping across the hardwood floor as he ran toward
me.

“Saab…?”

In the corner of the living room, lying on a
well-worn …