The downtrodden snow was icy underfoot and when Sam began pulling hard on the leash, my left heel slipped and I nearly went down. The dog, agitated and whiny, looked back at me with a brief apology before lowering his shoulders and commencing a second charge forward. I flicked my wrist, stopping him in his tracks. "Easy, Sam, you're going to put me in traction."


We were approaching the point where the path began a steep descent for 500 feet down to the frozen Saco River. Halfway, on a plateau cut into the side of the hill, was the old woman's house.


I flicked my wrist again to stop what I sensed was building into a third charge. The dog's restless manner was feeding my own sense of unease.


"What is it, boy? You smell a bear? A moose? Do you need to do a less-than-solid?" I asked, somehow knowing it was none of these.


I looked skyward as a few flurries began to fall, slow dancing around us in the gentle breeze. It was cold today, well south of zero. My woolen cap had ridden up and I pulled it over my ears.


The dog sat on his haunches and stared at me, waiting for instructions. His sad brown eyes remained unwavering as he let out a low whine.


"Okay, let's go, but don't pull so hard." At 70 pounds, Sam could muster a good degree of horsepower, and with his oversized paws, enjoyed a cat-like confidence on the ice.


Sam and I always took the path by the old woman's house at roughly the same time every day no matter what the weather conditions. Her quiet presence on that ancient, dilapidated porch was as reliable as a February frost heave.


Sam and I had grown a certain fondness for the old woman. We had an understanding. In four months we had not spoken a word to each other, content to accept that two neighbors in the remote mountains of northern New Hampshire, were perfectly entitled to mind their own respective affairs. There was no need, and no desire for any more interaction beyond a twice-daily conciliatory nod. Once on the downhill leg and once on the return climb. Occasionally, when we both felt like letting go, the briefest of waves were exchanged.


Sam began pulling me again as we closed in on the house and for the second time, I nearly went down, saved at the last second by grabbing a conveniently located white birch overhanging the path.


Sam kept pulling, but we were almost there so I gave in and let him tug me along, sliding awkwardly over the last few feet until the empty porch came into sight.


Sam stood, staring at the house. He began to quietly whine, shifting his gaze from the house to me, and then back to the house. My rational side tried to mount a convincing argument. There was no reason to doubt she was inside having a nice restful sleep. Or maybe she was washing, reading, eating, drawing, writing, or doing any of a million other simple activities. She could be down by the river, taking in the majestic, chaotic jumble of the ice-jammed river. She could be in town getting food, wood for the fireplace, or travelling interstate visiting friends and relatives.


But my routine was broken.


Routine was how I stayed sane, at least in a relative sense. Every single day over the last four months, my life had been an unchanging routine. The pills arriving through the mail only helped so much. The rest was up to me. Routine couldn't make me forget, but it did help me survive.


The old woman understood. We had a commitment. In four months, she had not missed one of our walks. Not one.


I stood next to the dog, both of us staring up at the house. The snow had transitioned from flurries to something that promised at least a few inches, maybe more. I took a step toward the house, paused, and then stepped back. Sam followed and I had to rein him back in. Those big brown eyes talked to me in a language I did not understand. For roughly the millionth time, I silently wished my dog could talk to me.


What if she was sick? Or had taken a fall? There’s no one else around for miles.


"Is that what you're trying to tell me, Sam?" I asked in a whisper. “She needs my help?"


The dog sat down, once again waiting for my lead.


The snow was getting heavy now, so thick it was making it harder to see the house. And with the snow, the sky had darkened, but I could see no lights on. I looked skyward; my eyes blinded by snowflakes, but not before a surprising sight drew a sharp breath.


Smoke was coming from the chimney.


I looked at Sam. "At least she's alive."


The dog whined.


"All right, let's keep going. Come on." I pulled the leash, but the dog had no intention of leaving. He sat down and whined again.


"What do you want me to do? Go and check on her? I don't know her...I'm sure she's fine."


A movement caught my eye. A drawn shade. The old woman appeared in the window. She waved.


Sam and I exchanged looks and for once I think we finally understood- each other.


We trudged up the walkway to her front door, but before I could knock, she opened the door. The woman was older than I thought, probably in her eighties. She looked nervous and spoke with a tremble.


"Hello, I've been waiting for you. My name's Beryl. Why don't you come in out of the snow for a coffee?"


Despite the house's drab exterior, its interior looked warm and inviting, and smelled like an up-market cafe. But I had to tread carefully--popping in here on my daily walk for a warm cup of coffee could easily become routine.