As if he can read my mind, Gramps says, “I wanted to talk through this whole dog situation.”

“Dewey, you mean. Right?” I ask, trying to get a sense of where Gramps’s mind is today.

“Yes, Dewey,” he repeats.

“Did I tell you this is where I first saw her?” I ask, twirling in a circle to take in the whole 360 degrees of the clearing. “I pulled one of those prickly burr thingies out of her paw, and I think that’s when she chose me.”

“Chose you?” Gramps asks. “How do you mean?”

“I don’t know, really. Chose me to be her friend. To take care of her.” And then I add, “Chose me to talk to.”

He grins at me, and nods like he understands.

“It’s a special thing to be chosen,” he says.

We walk slowly down the trail that leads through the woods, both of us sort of quiet, but not in a bad way.

“Did your mom ever tell you about Marshmallow?” Gramps suddenly asks.

“Marshmallow?” I repeat, as if it was the first time I’d heard that name. “No. What’s that?”

“Who’s that,” he corrects me. “Marshmallow was our dog that we had when your mom was a little girl. He was mostly your grandmother’s dog, though—just don’t ever tell your mom that.”

“Really?” I ask, so excited because I don’t hear many stories about Mom’s mom. “What was he like? Marshmallow?” I repeat, loving the way his name is all sweet and cuddly.

“Oh, he was a little wiry thing, yappy, smelly, wouldn’t do anything unless your mother—I mean your grandmother—was the one doing the asking.” He pauses and laughs. “But loyal. He was the best dog. I remember he showed up on our doorstep during a storm one night, and he was so scrawny and hungry and dirty.”

“What happened to him?”

“We never knew where he came from, but that night your grandmother said the same thing to me—that he chose us. And that meant we were obligated to give him a home. To love him. To keep him safe.”

“And you kept him?”

“We did. And he was with us for the next twelve years. Marshmallow was the first animal your mom ever loved. She got that from your grandmother—wanting to help animals. And I think you’ve got it too, Sass.”

“Mom doesn’t ever talk about her—Grandma, I mean.”

He nods, saying, “She misses her.”

We walk a while longer and Gramps doesn’t say much; he just looks off into the trees.

“I like hearing stories about her,” I add.

Gramps looks at me then and smiles so bright and big. “I like telling them.”