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"Neal!"
Satchmo turned just in time to see Peter rushing over, nearly tripping over a multicolored train set in the process. The engine, which had landed somewhere underneath the couch, would be considered missing for the next several weeks.
Peter cursed under his breath as he limped toward the Christmas tree. “Stay still, okay, buddy? Don’t move.”
Suddenly, Satchmo felt the literal sensation of weight being lifted off his back as Peter carefully lowered Neal onto the floor.
Elizabeth peered into the living room. “Hon?”
“We’re okay,” Peter called out, reassuring Elizabeth as he removed a small red globe from the toddler’s grasp.
Satchmo, being the understanding dog that he was, whined in sympathy.
Just before the first tears were shed, Elizabeth stepped over the train set and replaced the ornament with Neal’s favorite stuffed animal. After planting a kiss on the top of his dark hair, she took note of the sparsely decorated tree, the ornaments of which had been purposefully left off the lower branches. “How on earth—"
Peter shook his head in disbelief. “Neal used Satch to reach some of the ornaments.”
Elizabeth brought a hand up to cover her laugh. "I think it's pretty clear who the mastermind was.” Her eyes landed on Satchmo, who held her gaze. "Does this make them partners in crime?"
Peter groaned, but the hint of a smile on his face was telling enough. "Let’s hope not. Satch already has a rap sheet."
"A repeat offender?” Elizabeth raised a brow. “What'll be his sentence?"
"I think three treats instead of four sends a clear message.” Peter held up his fingers as he spoke, annunciating the numbers, but Neal’s attention was wholly fixated on the tree’s twinkling lights.
Hearing the magic word, Satchmo ran toward the kitchen, barking once, then twice until Elizabeth walked over. He waited patiently, his mouth salivating onto the floor as she retrieved a small jar from the cabinet.
"Are you sure that's a fair sentence? It is Christmas, after all..."
Peter pursed his lips, looking between Satchmo and his wife. "We'll consider that a mitigating factor."
Elizabeth raised and lowered a nearby pair of tongs like a gavel before handing Satchmo five treats, sneaking in an extra under Peter's nose.
"As for you, mister—" Peter said, lifting his son in the air. "The tree is just for looking, okay? We need to be careful with your mom’s ornaments.”
"Star!" Neal giggled. As he did, he reached toward the top of the tree with his free hand while the other firmly held onto his stuffed bear.
When they had first brought the baby home, Satchmo hadn’t known what to make of this new Neal. If the smells and sounds weren’t obvious enough, this small child was very clearly not Neal.
Satchmo had his fair share of doubts about what this meant for their family of three. Would he still get his walks? Would he start having to share his food? He’d look to the baby for answers, but the tiny human would merely babble nonsensically while reaching toward Satchmo’s ears. He was successful on more than one occasion, but Satchmo had been quick to forgive, seeing as how happy Peter and Elizabeth were about the baby. Even as a dog, he had felt the shift, too—the end of that brief interlude where they didn't have either Neal in their lives.
As time passed, Satchmo grew tired of standing post at the front door, which no longer opened unannounced, and instead took up an interest in the newest addition to the Burke family. Depending on the day, he’d alternate between sleeping underneath the crib and taking afternoon naps next to the dining table while Peter worked from home.
Watching over new Neal quickly became second nature. The two of them had much in common at this age, including shared activities like rolling on the floor and putting things in their mouths that shouldn’t be there. And while new Neal no longer walked on all fours, Satchmo always made himself available in case the toddler needed to grasp onto his fur for leverage. Or, on days like today, if he wanted something just outside of his reach.
Although things were certainly different now, in some ways they were also the same. Satchmo still went on his walks, and to his relief, he didn't have to share his food with the baby. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Whereas old Neal carefully lowered his hand beneath the table, new Neal preferred to toss his food directly onto the floor, sometimes with it landing right on Satchmo’s head.
He'd have to train new Neal to be more discreet.
While Satchmo finished the last of his treats, Elizabeth slid out two bottles from a wooden rack. “White or red?”
Peter looked up from where he sat on the floor with Neal. “I think he’ll enjoy that merlot Diana gave us. I haven’t had the heart to open it.”
Elizabeth set the bottle down on the kitchen island. “I can’t believe she gave you and Clinton going-away presents. Isn’t it usually the other way around?”
“I think she hoped it would soften the blow.”
“Tell her it did no such thing.”
Satchmo tuned out of the conversation and went for his water bowl, forgetting what he’d left there previously. The sloshing of water alerted Peter, who stood up to investigate.
“Hon, I don’t think Satchmo approved of your mom’s gift.”
To his relief, Peter removed the bandana and brought it into the kitchen, where he began to wring out the water above the sink.
Elizabeth sighed. “I tried to warn her, but she insisted it matched Neal’s pajamas.”
“Well, it’s waterlogged now,” Peter said as he draped the bandana over the faucet to dry. “We can always try again tomorrow.”
Satchmo knew there was zero chance of that happening.
“Do you think you could take Satch out before it gets too late?” Elizabeth asked. “I’ll start setting the table.”
“Come on, buddy. Let’s suit up.”
In the foyer, Peter added several layers to his wardrobe, but not before helping Satchmo with his own winter boots. He hadn’t been the biggest fan of how the shoes felt on his paw pads, but he learned to tolerate them once he realized how much easier it was to walk in the snow, especially when much of the sidewalk had iced over. The boots allowed him to take his steps with more confidence, even in his older age.
But before they ventured outside, Peter pulled out his phone for what seemed like the millionth time that day.
Elizabeth noticed this, too. “Any word?"
Peter shook his head. "Not since yesterday."
“The pot roast is still in the oven,” Elizabeth said as she adjusted Neal’s socks, both of which he promptly removed in front of her. “Don’t call in the cavalry just yet.”
Satchmo looked toward the door and whined.
“Sorry, buddy. Let’s go.”
Outside, the late afternoon snowfall showed no signs of letting up. This, of course, didn’t bother Satchmo one bit. The winter chill barely permeated the outer layer of his fur, and the small boots covering his paw pads kept their walk from turning into an impromptu ice skating session.
Mesmerized by the falling snow, Satchmo would pause their walk to catch snowflakes in his mouth, repeating the process as the ice melted upon contact. The sensation of wetness on his nose made him sneeze, which earned him a slight chuckle from Peter.
“It’s a cold one, Satch. We’ll keep it short tonight.”
Satchmo was agreeable at first, but that all changed once he caught a scent that led them several streets over. He tugged on the leash, leading Peter to his desired location, where he promptly relieved himself on a mound of snow.
His thick coat kept him plenty warm during the rest of their walk, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy the warm fire waiting for them at home—not to mention the delightful smells that had filled the house since the morning. Satchmo had helped, of course, by keeping close watch in the kitchen. And if a stray piece of meat or chopped vegetable had found its way onto the floor, well, he made sure to do his part.
Satchmo hoped dinner would be soon. He nudged at Peter’s legs to keep moving.
“Sorry, Satch.” Peter slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. “I was just checking something.”
As they circled back to DeKalb Avenue, Satchmo heard the sound of wheels trudging through a mixture of melted snow and oil. He turned his head away from the passing yellow cab and its crude vapors, which were exacerbated by the moisture in the air.
Once there was some distance between them and the cab, Satchmo raised his head back to eye-level just in time to see a single passenger being let out in front of the Burke home.
Satchmo wasn’t sure who was leading whom as their casual walk quickly turned into a brisk jog. He soared through the air with a sudden burst of energy, pulling on his leash until it dragged behind him in the snow. In one swift movement, he jumped onto his back legs, alternating between barking and licking as he was overwhelmed with pure joy.
“It’s good to see you, too, buddy,” Neal breathed into the air, releasing scents of tannins and starch. He wore a long coat with a dark turtleneck that reached just above the collar, the latter of which contained traces of a familiar perfume.
Feeling the strain in his back legs, Satchmo returned to all fours and began inspecting Neal’s pockets for treats.
“Neal.”
Satchmo turned around, pausing his search.
Peter was looking at Neal the same way that Satchmo looked at a squirrel right before it ran up a tree, almost like he thought Neal might disappear, too.
“You weren’t answering your phone. I thought that maybe—"
"Satch, tell your dad he worries too much.” Neal handed the leash back to Peter and adjusted the satchel that sat across his shoulder; it didn’t appear to be heavily packed. “I forgot to pick up a SIM card.”
Peter nodded. “Good flight at least?”
“Heathrow was a mess, but I told myself I was getting on that plane, even if that meant I’d be in the cargo hold.”
“If I remember correctly, Gary Rydell was a stowaway once." Peter paused, allowing Neal an opportunity to interject. "INTERPOL had the locals seize the plane once it landed in Brazil, but somehow Rydell had already slipped away.”
Neal smiled. “That sounds like Gary.”
“INTERPOL decided it was a false tip and didn’t pass it on to the FBI until months later,” Peter recalled. “In their file, they noted that the cabin hadn’t been pressurized.”
“Oxygen concentrators,” Neal said. “At least, that’s what I would’ve done.”
“But not this time?”
“Not this time, no.”
Satchmo understood that there were two kinds of planes: some were toys that new Neal liked to play with, while others meant that Peter wouldn’t be coming home for several days. The latter happened most recently when there were still leaves on the trees and flowers in the garden. At the time, he didn’t know how long Peter would be gone, only that he’d come back.
Neal cleared his throat. "The house looks nice."
“Thanks.” Peter rested a hand on his hip, taking in his hard work. “I only nearly fell off the ladder once.”
"Peter, a man of your age—"
Satchmo felt a hand run along his back, raking the fresh snow off his fur. He heard it crunch together in Peter's hand before seeing it fly through the air, hitting Neal right in the shoulder.
Neal shook his head and picked out some of the snow that had landed in his ear. "That wasn’t very age-appropriate."
Satchmo anticipated being hit next and started dashing back and forth to avoid being pelted by snow. To his disappointment, Neal didn’t retaliate. Instead, he laughed in delight as Peter’s legs became tangled in the leash.
Peter bent down and unleashed Satchmo to remove the knot. "Come on, Satch, us old men need to get inside."
They made it about halfway up the stairs before Satchmo realized that Neal hadn’t moved from the sidewalk. He trailed back down the stairs and raised his nose into Neal’s hand, nudging at him to follow.
Peter turned around. “You okay?”
“It’s nothing. I just—" Neal sighed, releasing a visible cloud into the cold air. He blinked several times before wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "I never thought I'd be standing in front of this house again."
To Satchmo’s relief, Peter joined them at the base of the stairs.
Neal immediately looked away from Peter, and in doing so, he saw the fireplace, visible from the sidewalk, and the five stockings that hung above the mantle. "Your son, Peter," he whispered softly, as if it were a precious secret. "None of this feels real. Or—"
Without hesitation, Peter pulled Neal into a hug, holding him tightly as though he might slip away. “It is, Neal. It’s real and deserved.”
Neal leaned in, wrapping his own arms around Peter. Neither of them exchanged words, but Satchmo could smell the fresh tears brimming in both of their eyes.
Seeking to offer additional comfort, Satchmo quietly weaved his way between both of their legs. Despite the snow, he felt an unmistakable amount of warmth.
When the three of them inevitably separated, Peter’s anxious smile gave way to an excited laugh. “Come inside and meet him.”
* * *
Satchmo found himself in a trance as the incandescent lights warmed the living room, lulling him into a sleepy haze. He yawned as he lay in his new bed, which had been conveniently placed next to the couch where the two Neals sat together, happily enjoying each other’s company.
Cloaked by the fire’s warmth, Satchmo tucked his head into his arms, picturing their smiles and laughter as he let his eyes fall shut. He felt comforted by the knowledge that Neal—both old and new—would be there when he woke up.
Behind them stood the tree, now missing its star topper.
As for his accomplice? He’d never tell.