The lone apple tree never produced fruit until Rocco sat beside it. Every day Rocco lounged by the tree like a black sphinx, the perfect perch to view his kingdom of scampering groundhogs, dandelions, and a forgotten apple orchard. The blossoms grew into red, edible orbs, falling with a thump that startled Rocco. He’d give the fruit a sniff, then return to his surveillance of the hill and its view. Two friends, tree and dog—side by side.

The orchard was tangled in a labyrinth of vines, and its only visitors were the deer at dusk. Rocco barked and barked at them, bounding toward them only to be halted by the long leash tethered to the apple tree. His bark was deep with a guttural growl, and he’d rake the ground, kicking up divots of grass in protest.

The apple tree was the best place to watch the humans coming home. Maybe it was the dad in his Camaro, the mom in her convertible or the son in his Mustang. Rocco would raise his head in a howl, scratch the ground in triumph then bolt toward the house to greet them.

Rocco was a hiker, accumulating millions of steps on his four legs. He’d hop in the lady’s convertible to zip over to the nearby state park. Together the pair would circle the reservoir—winter, spring, summer, and fall. Every step was a sniff of a fern, the base of a tree, an overgrown mushroom, or a flop into a brook to cool Rocco’s belly. When he was young, Rocco would dig deep holes, his snout snorting and searching for the chipmunk or mole he was certain was under the ground. His entire body was damp with dirt.

Sometimes Rocco’s walks were around the neighborhood, up Belltown Road to the top of a cherry orchard, trespassing down the aisles of trees, sniffing the dropped berries, ripe and red. Rocco saw all kinds of critters on his walks: a momma and her six baby skunks, chipmunks that scooted into old stone walls, coyotes skulking across the road, and dogs that barked in hysterics. But Rocco had no interest in barking back at the silly dogs. He’d dismiss them with a pee or a back kick of dirt.

Rocco loved the trail that led to the Connecticut River through Earle Park and Great Pond’s tall grass that brushed against his dark coat. Sometimes his owner would drive him to the beach, where his paws felt the cushion of sand and he enjoyed all the new smells of seaweed and salt.

Not every Rocco adventure was idyllic. There were scuffles with other animals: the Golden Retriever loose and galloping toward him, stopped by a Rocco bite to the ear. The swift killing of a chipmunk with a stomp of two paws, left for dead after a sniff and a lick. The accidental step onto a nest of bees and his dance and wiggle to shake off the stings! The skunk spray on a cold November night, followed by hours of tomato soup and water hose showers in the driveway.

Rocco was a good listener, never saying a word, just staring intently, his floppy cartoon ears perked, his head tilted. He knew when to spoon you or sit heavy in your space with a humph and a butt and his fur would soak up all the tears and make the sadness go away.

Rocco loved his people. The man trimmed his nails and gave him his medicine every month, slipping him a little treat or two. The boy snuggled with Rocco, played tug of war with him, and built makeshift tents in the family room. The boy’s room was perfect for scavenging: chip bags, Tyson chicken scraps, and an occasional Skittle. At night Rocco burrowed under the covers with his family, and every evening round the corner of the kitchen to welcome everyone home with a wag and squeal of joy. The lady gave him baths and towel rubs, but mostly it was the walks she took him on that were his favorites.

When his people drove west to St. Louis, he jumped in the back of the car like a pioneer in his chuck wagon, ready for the new adventure. He loved his walks along the city sidewalks with all kinds of marks to smell: dogs, people, food, and scents he couldn’t identify. On the corner of Laclede and Euclid, he’d sneak an onion ring or a scrap of chicken. Sometimes his owner had to pry his mouth open to remove a rib bone. He sunbathed on the balcony, front legs crossed, gazing at skyscrapers and the Gateway Arch while breathing in the aroma of Vietnamese food from the restaurant below. On the weekends the family would leave their city home for the lake, where Rocco had a new perch overlooking Lac Lafitte. He saw a new groundhog and boats coasting by, and even more deer! He got his lake legs too, jumping on the pontoon boat and sitting at the bow, his ears flapping in the breeze and his white-rimmed mouth pulled into a smile.

His walks grew shorter. He no longer needed a leash because he liked staying close by. He slept more, ate less, and limped more.

Rocco doesn’t sit on the hill anymore. The forgotten apple orchard is now a 10,000-square-foot mansion. The apple tree blew over in a storm, leaving a lonely stump. Rocco doesn’t cross Laclede and Euclid anymore, and the city balcony and lake deck sit empty.

Time passes too fast, but Rocco knew how to slow time down. He knew how to love, how to make a family and how to break hearts. He was the best boy.