So in a movie, I’d land all graceful and tough and grab that little guy.
But this isn’t a movie.
I kinda land on top of him. Legs splayed like a bug on a windshield.
Not enough to smush him.
But definitely enough to annoy him.
The car spins, dips, rights itself.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m your uncle Bob.”
“If you’re my uncle, why are you trying to kill me?” he asks.
Pup has a mouth on him, for being so tiny.
“I’m saving you, dude.” I grab his scruff with my teeth.
“Ouch,” he says.
The car seesaws. I scrabble, clawing at the slick skin of the roof. My nails make a horrible scraping sound.
It’s like trying to hug a whale.
“Can you swim?” I ask out of the side of my mouth. It’s hard to talk with a puppy between your teeth.
“No. Can you?”
“Yes. But I suspect the degree of difficulty will go up considerably with a puppy in my mouth.”
The car lists, recovers, lopes along like a jackrabbit in tall grass. My claws make tracks in the paint.
“How’d you get on top of the car?” I ask.
“Wasn’t easy. Branch broke through one of the windows. I climbed out that way.”
“Impressive.”
“By the way,” says the puppy, “I think we may be sinking.”
“No kidding, Sherlock.” I don’t mean to sound unkind. I’m a bit stressed.
“I don’t have a name, actually.”
“How about Rowdy?” I suggest. “I hear it’s available.”
“Sure, what the heck? So what’s your plan?”
“You tell me,” I say. “What’d you think was going to happen?”
“I figured someone would come along and save me. Some human, maybe.”
“Dog’s best friend?” I say.
“If you say so.”
Another lurch. We’re going down.
“Hang on, pup,” I say. “Man’s best friend is gonna save you instead.”