Black Dog

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—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 mid-stride once. Turned around hard. My dog looked confused. My heart ticked 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. Narrow. Bends inward. Eats sound. I stayed in 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.

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