At first, Throckmorton lay calmly, fascinated by the unique architecture of each snowflake in the moment before it melted on his eye.
They were like him, he thought—one of a kind.
He assured himself that once the excitement died down, Evan or Teddy or maybe Annaliese herself would come looking for him.
Soon snowflakes—too many to count—masked his face.
Holy frozen rats!
They’d forgotten all about him . . .
Now every single snowflake felt like a stone.
Blanketed with heavy snow, Throckmorton sensed the passage of time; first dusk, then darkness. Sometime later, he heard Annaliese screech, “But I have to find Throckmorton! I can’t leave him out there!”
Someone, maybe one of the aunties, shouted, “Get back in the house this minute! You’ll never find him in all that snow!”
“I don’t care. I’m going!”
“No! You’ll freeze! It’s too dangerous! Wait until morning!”
“Teddy and I’ll go!” Evan shouted. “We’ll tie ourselves together with a rope.”
“Get Bailey!” Annaliese cried. “He’ll find him!”
But after that Throckmorton heard no voices at all.
Throughout the night, the savage blizzard raged. Visions of Miss Beatrice and Sir Rudyard, lifeless in the black coffinlike instrument cases, haunted him.
I won’t end up like them . . . I can’t end up like them, he told himself over and over again.
He must stay awake and keep his sock monkey senses alive: eyes, ears, nose, and skin.
It was his only hope.
First, he counted forward.
Then, he counted backward.
Next, he created lists:
The names of the judge’s seven sisters (Pansy, Patricia, Penelope, Petra, Pixie, Polly, Priscilla).
The kinds of pies that Mrs. Wiggins baked (lemon merengue, mince, rhubarb, cherry, pecan, pumpkin, banana cream).
The colors of the days-of-the-week ribbons Annaliese once wore in her hair, starting with Monday (lilac, butter yellow, persimmon, lime green, melon orange, petal pink, and periwinkle on Sundays).
Later, while reciting his cousins’ names on Great-Grandmama’s sock monkey family tree, he was stabbed by a new reality: If he wasn’t found, he’d miss Great-Grandmama’s birthday party!
He imagined the note of regret that he would write if he were able to use a pen:
~RSVP~
Mr. Throckmorton S. Monkey is buried in a snow bank.
He deeply regrets that he will be unable to attend Ethel Constance Easterling’s ninetieth birthday party.
Oh, the disappointment was cruel and impossible to bear.
Throckmorton fought the good fight for two more days and two more nights. Eventually, his body grew cold, his mind grew weary, and his spirit grew weak. He lost all track of time.
In his diminished state, he visualized the coming of spring. How the sky would spit showers of chilly rain. How Annaliese would find her beloved sock monkey soaked and misshapen in a slushy, muddy mess.
At long last, his heavy, unhappy thoughts sucked all the hope out of him. The battle was lost. He slept.
In his dreams, Throckmorton drifted off to a shimmering palace where red-heeled sock monkeys in tuxedos danced until dawn and (a very much alive) Miss Beatrice told him that his kisses tasted like red licorice.
Little by little, the moon-jeweled sky lightened to morning gray and the stars slipped out of sight. Throckmorton became aware—he didn’t know how—of movement taking place above him.
A soft scraping sound thrummed in his dull ears. Snow crystals broke up before his black button eyes.
Smoo-sh! Squoo-sh!
A gigantic paw plunged into his snowy grave.
Then a second paw, with thick pads and curved nails, lunged past the first. The beast’s feet clawed and scrabbled. Miraculously, Throckmorton’s body parts were spared.
Finally, a huge square snout broke through.
Donald the Great Dane!
The gentle beast had broken off his chain.
The dog’s breath smelled rank. His tongue was slimy. As his jaws snapped shut, Donald’s incisors penetrated Throckmorton’s stuffed head.
Yee-ouch!
Donald shimmied backwards out of the snow tunnel. In the silver-gray light, Eastcliff appeared as a ghost ship anchored in tall frozen waves.
The dog struggled through the deep, deep snow on long legs as unsteady as stilts. When they reached his dog house, he pawed aside a scrap of horse blanket that hung across the opening.
Donald’s sleeping space smelled like straw. He cradled Throckmorton between his bony legs and laid his snout on Throckmorton’s smile.
Donald’s body heat warmed him. The thump-thump-thump of the dog’s hammering heart made him feel safe. Dog slobber washed over him like a warm cleansing rain. He slept again.
Soon the hopeful sun rose higher in the morning sky. Donald clamped down on Throckmorton’s leg with a soft mouth and shook him awake. Slowly, they scaled and conquered windswept drifts of snow, some as tall as Great-Grandmama’s horses.
Throckmorton had spent most of his life feeling bendy and floppy or droopy and saggy. But at this moment, his heart swelled with gratitude so strong that it seemed as if he were truly made of muscles and bones.
Throckmorton had judged the canine species most unfairly and vowed never to do so again.
Outside the kitchen door, Donald let loose a crescendo of jubilant barks.
“Well, well, well . . . would you look at that?” Mrs. Wiggins marveled as she opened the door.
“Throckmorton! Praise be . . . you’re just what the doctor ordered.”