Pawprints
RORI PEAT
Max never made it all the way up Graham’s hill. Not anymore.
The journey was only a short, narrow path, leading straight from our place on Albert Road up to the aged playground on my old friend Leads’s street. The air itself smelt of my childhood, of the rusted swingset and the splinter-ridden park bench. Max could smell it too; I could tell by the way he drooled at the thought of Leads’s homemade biscuits, the ones he’d once eaten one too many of before throwing up in a vacant bottlebrush bush.
Once Max’s fur started to grey, Leads would wait for us at the top of the hill, offering a simple wave and nod, but he knew Max couldn’t make it the whole way if he tried. Not anymore.
Though, my Max still knew the way like the back of his paw. He’d known that place since he was a pup, back when Saturdays meant muddy paws and game nights at Leads’s place, when Aunt Chris brought pizza that left the air thick with cheese and laughter. The years had stretched thin, yet the smell of good food and the sound of Leads’s voice tugged at him, as if time itself had bent to bring him back. Every step seemed guided by some invisible current, memories etched into the journey itself.
He tugged the lead a little harder, panting as if he’d run a marathon, eyes watering, drool dripping from his mouth. It fell onto the icy sidewalk, melting the frost in its wake, as though the ground remembered him and softened beneath his little paws.
Eventually, Max stumbled and slowed, but it was only to be expected; bulldogs weren’t exactly known for their smooth breathing. I jerked his lead a few times as if it made any real difference.
His labored breathing had always been an issue, always there, present like the hole in the wall I kept patching over. Vibrant paintings and displays only did so much to conceal what sat beneath.
I chose to ignore the signs. He’s still young, I told myself. I won’t need to worry about that. Not yet.
'Come on, Max,' I sighed, dragging my feet along behind me. There was a time he could outrun me, with his short little legs, puppy belly and all. There was no stopping my Max. Like the times we would jog along the beach, only stopping when Max’s attention was stolen by innocent seagulls— when the waves were the only thing stopping him from swallowing them whole. The sand and waves shimmered in my memory, carrying echoes of every pawprint we’d left behind on the way.
Those magical memories haunted me while I watched him struggle.
Max’s ears stuck right up when we neared the top of the hill. That’s how I knew we’d made it as far as he could manage. His tail paused momentarily, watching, waiting. He sniffed once, twice, maybe waiting for the scent of Wednesday’s pizza nights, maybe waiting for Leads to offer him a scrap of his crust.
But Leads wasn’t waiting for us today. His house stood bare, though his car still lingered in the driveway. There was a fox tail tied around the aerial. I told myself it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
'Nobody’s here. Let’s go home, Max,' I said, more to myself than him. 'Nobody’s waiting for us.'
His eager little ears fell flat, and he looked up at me as if to say but why? Good thing he couldn’t speak the words, I wouldn’t know how to answer them.
Max’s paws shuffled against the gravel. It didn’t take much convincing for him to turn around; he was exhausted anyway. The rocks and stones tripped him up like they wanted to keep him there, but the momentum of it all pushed him forward. I pretended not to notice his struggle. We’d be home soon enough.
Max’s pace steadied once we reached Albert road, though the sudden breeze held him back. It swelled and it hissed and the fine hairs on my arm began to prick right up.
A storm was brewing.
The gutters groaned as it pressed harder. Max’s little ears flicked back and his tail shrunk between his legs as if it could make him less susceptible to the wind's wrath. He hated storms. He always had. By the time we made it to the front door, his panting had instead been replaced by fear. He whined when I fumbled with the keys, the wind pressing hard against my back, pushing me as if to say hurry up already.
The key clicked. 'Get in, Buddy,' I muttered to Max, letting him inside before me. He pushed through without a second thought.
Warm air from within greeted us like a hug, still smelling of last night’s leftovers and the fresh odor of my new sofa. Max trotted in with the little energy he had left, panting and drooling and beelining straight for his old water bowl.
I hadn’t prepared dinner. Part of me hoped Leads would invite us in for a treat, pull us out of the weather's path and shelter us from its wrath. Instead my stomach growled and I know Max’s did too.
I rummaged through the fridge, hoping for something that didn’t require time. A few potatoes, some yoghurt on the verge of sour, and a sad-looking bunch of spinach stared back at me. Nothing that screamed comfort. Nothing like Wednesday pizza nights with Aunt Chris. Oh well. The wind howled outside and I felt a knot beginning to tie itself in my throat. But I knew I’d see Leads again. We were due for a catch up.
I contemplated carrying Max up the hill with me, just so he could hang with us, for old times sake, like he could still breathe with ease and nothing had changed one bit.
I sighed, settling for toast.
The toaster hummed, filling the kitchen with a faint warmth that didn’t quite reach the corners. Max limped a little around the space, letting out a sigh just to let me know he was there. His eyes followed me lazily, as if he knew toast meant he might get a bite if he played his cards right.
The storm faded outside, yet the lights still flickered, and for a moment, everything stilled. When the room brightened again, Max was still there, steady and familiar, his snores starting up again as though nothing had changed. I sat down with my plate and chewed slowly, listening to him breathe, each exhale carrying the enchantment of every walk, every game, every pizza night we’d ever shared.
*
By Friday, Leads called me over. I only had to ask three times, subtly implied in mostly unread text messages. Sometimes I wondered if Leads lost my contact. He was already grumbling about something before I’d even taken my jacket off. He threw himself down on the couch, tapping the spot beside him for me to join in. I smiled and did just that.
The room smelled just as it always had: fried food clinging to the carpet and a faint hint of deodorant that never succeeded in hiding the smell of old smoke.
'Game’s on,' Leads muttered, as if I couldn’t tell. He cracked open his drink with a sharp hiss, eyes glued to the screen. I smiled softly, settling in beside him. Max used to love this, sniffing around for crumbs, begging for our attention while our eyes remained so fixed on the screen. My leg twitched like I half-expected him to start tugging on my pants, but the space stayed empty.
I could hear him when Leads spoke to me. Something about the football game. I couldn’t seem to focus. Leads took a handful and chips and shoved them in, washing it all away with a heavy swig of his drink.
'Ball, you said?' I asked sheepishly. I wasn’t invested in the game at all. 'Where’d our ball go?' My Max was panting in the room beside us, undoubtedly looking for it too.
'Ball. They took the ball from us again,' Leads finished off his drink, agitation evident in his movements. 'Aren’t you watching? Don’t tell me I’m gettin’ pissed off and you’re not even paying attention. I’ve put way too much money on this game.'
'I am,' I lied. 'It’s just hard to follow right now.' I needed to see if Max was okay. He was chasing his ball around the room just a moment ago.
'Damn right. Ref needs to get the stick outta his-'
Max barked at something in another room, his voice loud and croaky, harsher than it had ever been. It echoed strangely in the corners, as if the walls themselves remembered him too well and like they wanted him out. It’s hard to listen to. Leads jabbed at the screen, shouting at the players as if the men could hear him. I nodded along, murmuring agreements I didn’t really mean.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could still hear Max’s panting, his croaky little bark echoing faintly, as if he were moving around the house, sniffing out old Pizza crumbs or chasing some phantom ball. Max’s presence lingered like smoke in the room. My eyes wandered, but I couldn’t find him.
'Sorry,' I interrupted, ' have you seen where Max went? He should be here somewhere.'
Leads paused mid-jab at the screen, raising his eyebrow. 'What are you on about?'
'I brought him with me, like I used to,' a commercial break began to play, and I glanced around the dark room again. 'Had to carry him up the hill this time, but he made it alright. He should be around somewhere. You know, chasing a ball, or something,' I forced a smile, but it never really reached my eyes.
Leads shook his head slowly, more irritation creeping into his voice. I couldn’t understand why. 'Dude, you really think he’s still running around here?'
'What?'
'That old thing hasn’t been around for years,' Leads said, his voice uncharacteristically stern. 'You okay, man?'
'What?' I repeated. My voice hardly came out as a whisper, and it ached deep in my throat to use it. Tears threatened to spill, but my body was dry. 'What do you mean?' I asked again, a little louder that time, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
I could still hear him. His little footprints cluttered softly against the timber. Distant, but there. I was sure of it.
'Max died,' Leads said, and the sternness faded, replaced by the familiar irritation that seemed to follow him around these days.
'Cancer. Three years ago, wasn’t it?'
I swallowed hard. Right. Deep down, I knew it.
'Four. I think.' I corrected him.
I watched him fade. I watched him lose the muscle and mischief that once filled every room. I focused on anything else, pretending the slow decline wasn’t happening to my boy, not my Max. That wasn’t like him.
I pretended the empty spots around the house didn’t ache. The wallpaper on my phone remained unchanged, that photo of him in the backseat, two months old with ice cream all over his nose. That was my Max— forever trapped in that frozen little moment. I needed to keep his memory that way.
'I’m just tired, I think,'I murmured, the words tasting heavy and hollow in my mouth. In the corner of my vision, I could have sworn I saw Leads roll his eyes, impatient and unseeing and already moving past the weight of the conversation. He couldn’t even call Max by his name.
'Well, I’m gonna head off,' Leads abruptly changed the subject, adjusting the hat on his head and spinning his drink in his fingers. 'If you’re interested, me and the boys are going out for drinks tonight. Down at the pub. Chuck us a message if you’re interested. Might help.'
'I’ll think about it,' I said. I wouldn’t.
The room grew colder, and Max’s presence began to fade. I couldn’t hear his heavy breathing anymore or his little paws on the hard surface. It was as if the house itself had exhaled, leaving behind only the faint scent of him, that mix of wet fur and old memories that clung stubbornly to the corners and all of my clothing.
Leads walked away and I sank into his couch, letting the silence press in, thick and unyielding. The game on the screen went unnoticed as my thoughts looped back over old walks, pizza nights, and the countless moments Max had filled this space with his life. Every corner was haunted by him: the shadow by the doorway, the untouched crumbs on the ground, even the faint scuff marks on the floorboards where he once ran and slid.
I tasted the pain of his absence when I closed my eyes.
Max was gone.
Memories flickered in my mind like old film. Brilliant, stubborn, and just beyond my reach. They clung too tightly, refusing to let go, twisting the familiar into something so fragile and spectral. It was a magic that refused to comfort, refused to leave, reminding me that even when he was gone, he was still here.
Leads’s truck revved on his way out, and I knew it was time to leave.
I couldn’t hold on forever.
It was the only way to honour my Max, to carry him forward without being trapped in the shadow of what had been.
Rori Peat
is a librarian in the works and a lifelong writer at heart. as an avid reader and writer, she is completing a bachelor of arts (english major, creative writing minor) to truly cultivate her passion for literature and creative expression.
