When he leans forward and puts his hands on his knees, there’s a glimmer of the man he used to be—just a glimmer, but it’s enough to give me hope.
He turns to Dane. “While I’m going to skip the whole kidnapping thing, you’re right on one count. I need to go to Chicago and track down JMB. Is there any way you can watch Harold for me?”
Eight
I’ll admit, I’m not excited to rise and greet the following day.
In fact, when I nose Miguel and he groans and says, “Five more minutes, Harold,” I go back to my bed and give him a whole hour. Who cares if he lets me out now or later? It’s going to be the same yard with the same smells. Then I’ll eat the same kibble while Miguel’s off gallivanting in Chicago.
Withoutme.
Now, it’s not like my life with Amelia was filled with adventure. After our early walk, she and I spent most of the morning in her office, where she’d clack-clack-clack on her keyboard and drink coffee and clack some more. Sometimes she wouldn’t even pause to eat lunch at the normal time—she probably would have skipped it altogether if it weren’t for my pestering. Still, I loved to watch her write. She put a big floor pillow beside her desk for me and would read me lines from her drafts.
“ ‘His smile was more a gift than a facial expression’…Ooh, that’s pretty good, don’t you think, Harold?”
Very good,I thought, lifting my head in affirmation.How lucky your readers are.
Most afternoons, we’d head to the bookstore, and that’s when the fun began. Who would drop in? Would they have their dogs with them, their other children, contraband snacks? There was even a student who came by with his cat. Technically, cats aren’t allowed in the bookstore—not because Amelia and Miguel disliked them, but it’s dicey with the place teeming with my kind. This fellow, however, wore a backpack with a plastic enclosure at the top, so his cat could see out. She always seemed incredibly bored, but the rest of us weren’t when she was around.
I take it back: Life with Amelia was very much an adventure. And now it’s not.
But as I watch Miguel throw clothing into his suitcase, it occurs to me that this isn’t over yet. He’s still here, which means I have time to prove to him that I am not too old to travel, nor would I be better off with a sitter. I must convince him that I am a dog with the ability to go to the big city and assist in the finding of one Jonathan Middleton-Biggs.
He’s just closed the suitcase when I begin to whimper and nudge his leg with my nose. It takes a minute, but he finally gets the hint. “You must really need to use the bathroom,” he grouses as we descend the stairs and head to the kitchen.
I do not, but once I’m out the door, I muster up enough urgency to lift my leg and wet a bush so that it doesn’t look like I’ve roused him for no reason. Then I begin the new, improved routine I’ve just devised. Around and around the yard I go—one lap, two, another and another. My knees now ache as much as my hips, but there’s no slowing down. Not yet.
“You’re not a mustang, Harold,” calls Miguel from the back door. Then he mutters to himself, “What has even gottenintohim?”
You have,I think as I zip past him.Do I look like an animal past his prime? I think not.
He shakes his head and wanders back inside the house. I do a few more laps, then collapse on the weathered wood deck, panting far more than I’d like. It’s already warm, and I’m going to need a bucket of water as soon as I catch my breath and find the energy to get back on my paws.
My torso’s still heaving when I sense something—almost like a bug on my back, but heavier. I turn my head and realize it’s Miguel’s gaze; he’s cupping a mug in his hands and staring at me from the windows that overlook the deck. He appears…concerned.
Doggone it. Of course he does. The way I’m breathing probably makes me seem like I need to be hauled to the emergency vet, who’s twice as expensive and three times as scary as the normal one. Though my tongue’s still dangling out of the side of my mouth, I attempt to smile to assure Miguel that I’m happy as a hairy clam. He frowns and doesn’t move from the window—almost like he’s waiting for proof that I’m all right.
And Iam.That’s why I was able to cover so much ground just now. But Miguel isn’t of the canis genus, and he doesn’t know that my recuperation is well within the realm of normal.
What else must I do to convince him?
Then I spot a squirrel in the garden box, rooting around where she has absolutely no business being. Now, I come from a long line of hunters—but personally, I’ve only ever been a companion. As such, I’ve never attacked anything more than a murder of crows, who then attempted to murdermefor an entire season, because it turns out their memories rival an elephant’s.
Still, Amelia loved everyone, but not everything. The squirrels continually raided her beloved bird feeder, which now sits empty. She even bought pricey, spicy birdseed to try to deter them—apparently birds are immune to heat—but the rodents managed to build up a tolerance to the stuff. She’d grab the broom and wave it at them, yelling her head off as Miguel stood by and laughed. She never did hit a squirrel, and eventually she’d end up laughing, too.
But she did loathe those grubby little creatures. And I must believe she’d approve of what I’m about todo.
I start slowly, crouching as I advance toward my target. The squirrel doesn’t see me, and even if she did, she probably wouldn’t care. They’re pretty far down the intelligence chain. They do, however, learn to assess threats quickly. And because I have not once chased their lot around these parts, she’s not expecting me to do so now.
I’m nearly at the garden box, and the squirrel’s still squatting in the dirt with her back to me. She’s eating something that landed in the soil—a mulberry, perhaps?—and I remind myself to stop thinking about what she’s doing and focus on the task beforeme.
I take a deep breath, lunge, and—
The noise hits me first, and oh my dog, it’sterrible,like someone has punctured a balloon but also poked a human baby and combined them into the most awful, high-pitched distress call I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing. Reality sinks in at the same rate my teeth sink into her coarse fur:I’ve caught the squirrel.She is clawing at my face like—well, like something trying to survive, twisting and attempting to biteme and,ouch,I think she just did. And yet I am jerking my head this way and that, just how I used to annihilate the squeaky toys Amelia gave me. This, however, is markedly less fun. Worse, I can’t seem to stop.
“Harold!”
Miguel’s running across the yard, holding the same broom Amelia used to wield at the squirrels raiding her bird feeder. I can only hope that Raina and the Bergers, who live on the other side of us, aren’t around to get the wrong impression. Because Miguel’s waving the broom at…me.
