She smiles at him and scratches his back. “Such a good puppy.”
I want her to smile at me like that. Smile at me. Touch me. Kiss me. Right here. In the chilly evening that’s getting chillier by the minute with the sun dropping lower but still illuminating the low-hanging clouds over the mountains in that brilliant fire-orange glow.
She swings her backpack over one shoulder, and as she’s shifting the leash to her other hand, Jitter straightens and sniffs the air.
I straighten.
Sabrina gets her other arm through the strap, and Jitter tenses.
I open my mouth. “Jitter, don’t—” I start, recognizing that look after the porcupine incident, but it’s too late.
He lunges, barking and pulling Sabrina with him. I spot a red fox tearing across the path to disappear up another hill into the trees.
“Ahhhh!” Sabrina shrieks as her snowshoes get twisted beneath her and she goes down, face-first into the snow, still clenching the leash.
I dash after the dog. “Jitter,stop,” I order.
“Jitter,halt,” Sabrina yells.
He whines and slows and pauses, looking back at both of us.
Then he whines again.
I grab the leash. “Got it. You can let go.”
“He doesn’t usually do this.” She grunts while she tries to untangle her legs, but her snowshoes keep getting tied up together.
“I’ve noticed.”
Jitter whines again and sinks back to the ground, puppy dog eyes out in full effect while he army-crawls closer to Sabrina.
“You’re a good boy,” she tells him. “But we don’t chase wildlife. Especially while we’re on a leash. Okay?”
He whimpers.
“Can you please pet my dog and tell him I’m okay?” She keeps trying to disentangle her feet and legs, and it seems to be a struggle.
“She’s okay, Jitter.” I scratch his back the same way she did, and instantly regret it.
I want my dog back.
I want friends I can say that to.
And I want to lift Sabrina out of the snow and carry her down off this trail.
“There.” She gets her legs untangled, reaches for one of her hiking poles as I’m turning to assist her, and in seconds, she’s back on her feet. “Oh,fuck.”
I lift a brow.
She growls to herself and bends over. Mutters some more, which prompts Jitter to whine more.
“You okay?” I ask her while I squat next to the dog and stroke his thick fur.
“Broken strap,” she mutters. She pulls off one of her snowshoes and holds it up for me to see. “It’ll slide right off my foot.”
This is a problem.
And I see an easy solution that I suspect I’m far happier about than she is. “Huh.”
