A Close Call

Chuck took me to a house in the country for a respite. Rich was getting no better. This was all so long ago now, back when I had only one dog, Harry. Harry, who didn’t come when called, didn’t sit, stay, roll over, beg, nothing. I had tried to teach him “sit” once, pushing his rump down, but it offended him, and he walked away. Harry was an old dog, and I was a relatively new dog owner. I warned Chuck not to let him out. “He’s a city dog,” I said, “he will get lost and I’ll never get him back.” I sat on the lawn. Chuck brought me bacon and eggs and toast with lots of butter. He went back to the house for the coffee.

Halfway through my bacon, Harry came trotting jauntily past, tail held high, and disappeared immediately into the woods. Chuck had let him out. He was so sure it would be all right. But Harry was my dog. I jumped up to follow him, clambering over fallen trees and muddying my feet in swampy land, wailing. Harry came back on his own. If he hadn’t, I’d’ve lost a dog, and I never could have looked at Chuck again.