Initially dismissing it as a quirk, Dave soon felt uneasy about the dog’s relentless focus. He passed by the drain again on Wednesday morning, on his way to work, and there the shepherd was—same position, same intense stare. On Thursday evening, it rained, a light drizzle that made the sidewalks slippery, and Dave assumed the dog would be gone.
But when he rounded the corner, he saw him huddled under the overhang of Mrs. Henderson’s porch, still facing the drain, his fur damp but his eyes unwavering. That’s when Dave’s concern grew. He’d had dogs his whole life—growing up with a golden retriever named Sam, then adopting Charlie three years ago—and he knew dogs didn’t act this way without a reason. There was something driving this shepherd, something that kept him coming back, even in the rain, even when no one was there to feed him or pet him.
Dave started making a point to stop by the drain every day. He’d bring a bottle of water, pouring it into a disposable cup and setting it by the grate. At first, the shepherd ignored it, but after a few days, he’d lean over and lap it up quickly, his eyes never leaving the drain for more than a second.
Dave tried talking to him, soft, calm words: “Hey, buddy. You okay? You waitin’ for someone?” The dog would flick his ears in Dave’s direction, like he was listening, but he never moved. He never wagged his tail or nuzzled Dave’s hand—he just stayed focused, like any distraction would make him miss whatever he was waiting for.