I was going to take him back to the shelter on Monday. I hate admitting that, but I was done. His name is Sarge. He’s a 110-pound Pyrenees mix, and for three weeks he’s been a nightmare. He doesn’t chew. He doesn’t bark. He escapes. Six-foot fence? He dug under it. Locked gate? He figured out the latch. Every day while I was at work, he’d break out. Animal control would find him miles away—dirty, exhausted, sometimes limping. The fines piled up. So did the fear. “He just doesn’t want to be here,” I told my sister. “He’s a runner.” Yesterday was Saturday. I was home. Around 10:00 AM, Sarge began pacing. Whining. Scratching at the door. I let him out—but this time, I followed him. I had to know. He didn’t run to a park. He didn’t chase anything. He put his nose to the ground and walked with quiet determination. He crossed a highway. Cut through thorns that shredded my jacket. Finally, he stopped at a cemetery and slipped through a broken fence. I climbed after him. In the far back corner, where no one visits anymore, Sarge lay flat in front of a small, neglected headstone. Calm. Still. At peace. The name on the stone belonged to an old man. That’s when I understood. Why the shelter struggled to place him. Why he was labeled “a runner.” He wasn’t running away. He was running back. For years, he’d been making this walk. Rain or snow, heat or cold. A standing appointment. I sat beside him in the dirt. He sighed deeply and rested his heavy head on my leg. I’m not taking him back on Monday. I bought a heavy harness and a 20-foot lead. If he needs to visit his dad, he won’t do it alone anymore. We’ll walk there together. Every Saturday. He’s not an escape artist. He’s just loyal—to a fault. #doglover #loyalty #LoyaltyOverEverything #herodog #animallover