“Should’ve gotten a dog door,” he says when he lets me out.
Should’ve? I may be old, but I’m still here, Miguel! Stop acting like it’s too late to make a change!
When I return, I look expectantly at his car keys, which are hanging on a hook on the wall. Surely, we can’t stay here all dayagain.
“No,” he says firmly. “I’m going to do some research about liquidating book stock and maybe call Miriam back. So, don’t get your hopes up.”
Don’t get my hopes up! He might as well command a fish to swim through the trees. Hope got me through a year in a crate. It kept me going in the animal shelter until Amelia arrived.
And at once, I realize that I need that hope again—for both of us. Fortunately, I know exactly where to find it…and it’s sure as sugar not in this house.
It takes me a while to think of a strategy that doesn’t involve begging. By the time lunch rolls around, however, I have devised a plan.
Act normal: This is my first order of business. I clang my bowl, as per usual, then suck up my kibble like a tornado in a cornfield. Immediately after, I rush to the door and cast deliberate glances at my leash. Miguel still has no intention of walking me, but my ruse works, and he opens the door so I can run around the backyard.
If I had the time, I’d work the latch on the gate. However, my second order of business is to escape while he’s stilllooking but before he can catch me. I jump up on the garden box and, after a few shameful seconds of hesitation, leap over the wooden fence and tear off down the driveway.
People are always amazed that dogs can find their way home from long distances. They shouldn’t be. All creatures have a natural homing instinct; it’s just that dogs take care to develop ours, as we know there’s likely to be at least one occasion in which it’s required for survival.
Except in this case, it’s Miguel I’m trying to save.
The sun’s high and the heat’s as heavy as a wet towel as I sprint down the side street leading to the big road. On and on I run, darting by the mail carrier, past a woman with a stroller who startles when she sees me, and around cars blocking the intersections.
It’s probably a mile from the house to the bookstore—hardly the stuff ofThe Incredible Journey,which is a Story Hour favorite, but no jog in the dog park, either. Just when I fear I can’t go on, I spot the telltale stretch of street signs and lampposts. I’ve made it downtown! As tempting as it is to scavenge for sidewalk scraps or stick my head inside the antique store with all the odors, I continue until I reach Lakeside.
Then I collapse in front of the door, too parched and winded to bark to be let inside.
The thud-thud-thud coming from under my ribs isn’t quite right. Maybe it’s my heart murmur. Amelia had one, too. Doctors said it was no big deal, but it turned out to be a little part of a very big deal. At any rate, I still remember how astonished she was when the vet told her aboutme.
“Oh, Harold,” she said, hugging me. “Of course you do. Of course, because I do, too! You and I really were meant to betogether, weren’t we?” Then she looked at the vet. “Will this hurt him?”
“Probably not in the short term,” he told her. “As he ages, though, his heart may get weaker.”
My heartdoesfeel weaker, though that might just be from missing Amelia. Either way, we’re well past the short term now. But a dog’s duty is a vow—a sacred promise that can’t be broken.
Miguel better get here soon.
Twenty
“Harold, you lunatic! What were you thinking? It’s nearly ninety out.”
I’m so happy to see Miguel that I’m not even concerned that his hands are balled into fists and he’s walking a lot faster than normal. Besides, while he may holler on rare occasions, he’s as scary as a garden snake.
He kneels over me on the pavement. “You’re the weirdest dog, you really are. I thought your runaway days were behind you. Are you trying to pull a JMB on me? Are you all right?”
Better than I was a few minutes ago, though that’s not saying much; perhaps sprinting wasn’t my most evolved idea. Miguel opens the door, and I force myself onto my paws. My legs are trembling as I make my way into the bookstore. Dane, who’s at the register, sees me and grabs his water bottle from the counter. “Here you go, bud,” he says to me, holding the bottle over my mouth. “Sorry I didn’t see you out there sooner.”
“I can grab his bowl from the back,” Miguel tells him.
“Dude, he’s wilting! Time is of the essence!” Dane says as I greedily gulp. Is there anything better than a cool stream ofwater on a hot day to remind you of how good it is to be alive? I think not.
“Thanks, but that’s disgusting,” says Miguel, because I did just lick the bottle.
Dane shrugs. “Their tongues are super clean. I read it online.”
I bathe my bottom with my mouth, so I’m not too sure about his sources. But I rub against his leg in gratitude.
“Welcome, Harold,” he tellsme.
