I hadn’t been on that trail in two years.
It was the kind of trail you forget how much you need until you’re on it — all pine needles and damp earth, the air just a little colder under the trees. I used to hike it every weekend… back when Cooper was still here.
But this time, I wasn’t alone.
Scout was with me.
Scout’s nothing like Cooper. Where Cooper was calm and polite — almost regal — Scout is all legs and bad decisions. A rescue pup with a mind of his own and a tail that never stops wagging. He doesn’t walk; he bounces.
And yet, something told me this trail was the right place for him.
Ten minutes in, Scout was already nose-deep in everything. He chased falling leaves like they were prey. He pounced on sticks too big to carry. And then, as I paused to tie my boot, I heard the splash.
He had found the puddle.
The mother of all mud puddles. And he was in it.
By the time I turned around, he looked like he’d lost a fight with a chocolate cake. Head to toe. His tongue was out, eyes sparkling, absolutely no remorse.
I should’ve been mad.
But I laughed — the first real, belly-deep laugh in months.
He looked so proud. So alive. And something inside me cracked open a little. Not in a painful way — more like sunlight through a cloud. Like maybe this dog, this ridiculous, messy, joyful beast… was exactly what I needed.
I hosed him off when we got home.
He stood there on the patio, soaked and shivering like a muddy mop. I wrapped him in his hooded microfiber towel, the one with the little ears on the hood that make him look like a sheep.
He leaned into me as I rubbed him dry, tail finally slowing.
And for a second — just a second — it felt like Cooper was there too.
Not gone. Just… passed the baton.
Now, every weekend, Scout and I hit the trail.
And every time he finds a new puddle, I don’t stop him.
Because some dogs keep you steady.
Others pull you back to joy.