The creek is filled with pieces of trees, boards, trash cans, plastic chairs, everything you can imagine. It’s moving way too fast for me to try to cross.
I stare at the far side of the creek, at the collapsed bridge. I really wish I hadn’t seen that puppy.
I know there’s another way to cross the creek, of sorts, downstream a bit. An old pedestrian bridge made of wood and metal and rope. No one uses it anymore.
No one with any sense.
When I reach it, the little bridge is swaying like a cradle. It’s blocked off by a rusty metal gate to keep people from using it, but I can easily squeeze through the bars.
I run halfway across, lose my footing, run some more.
Gulp. What am I doing?
A fresh gust pushes the bridge with such force that I slip. Half my body is dangling off the edge. I dig my claws into the wet wooden slats, and oh am I glad my nails are long and sharp because I fight off Sara’s clippers whenever I can.
Pulling, pulling, pulling—man, I wish I hadn’t eaten so much cheese over the years—and then umpph, one last effort and I’m back on the bridge.
It feels good, so good, to return to that little stretch of swinging slats. I want to live. Really I do.
I don’t care about the puppy anymore.
I just don’t want to die this way, not like this.
The fear’s in my throat, my heart, my gut. I’ve gotta get off this rickety bridge, get back to Ivan and Ruby, back to my wonderful, Bob-smelling bed.
I’m not a hero, never have been, never will be.
I can live with that, ’cause at least I’ll be alive.
I turn, moving snail-slow because the stupid bridge just won’t stay put, crawling on my belly so I won’t lose my footing again.
Almost to the end, I glance back, like a fool.
Just in time to see the car with the puppy lurch loose from its mooring in the tree, swirling into the middle of the creek like a toy boat in a bathtub.
The puppy isn’t howling or anything. He’s just lying on his belly, same as me, waiting.
What a nincompoop, I think yet again, and I’m honestly not sure whether I mean him or me.