Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
We don’t go to the store the following day, or the next.
Instead, Miguel takes up residence in front of his computer.
As far as I can tell, he’s poring over the same bills and accounts he’s seen a million times (though what do I know?
In what strikes me as a true injustice, I cannot read).
Regardless, I am almost certain that he’s avoiding Lakeside, probably because he doesn’t want to see what Riley has done with the place or be reminded of his own perceived failings.
Silly human.
Usually when it’s just the two of us, Miguel’s so worried about me that he anticipates my every need before I do.
Which, to be honest, can be incredibly annoying sometimes, even if he means well.
Now, however, it’s like I barely exist. This is nothing if not further evidence that he needs other people—because I’m sure not keeping him going.
But not just any people. Why doesn’t he call Fiona, tell her he’s sad and lonely and that the only time in recent history that he really felt good was when she was around?
Unfortunately, I can’t dwell on it too much this morning, as I have an urgent need to empty my bladder. So, I whine at Miguel until he rises.
“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 day again.
“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 still looking 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 of The 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 about me.
“Oh, Harold,” she said, hugging me. “Of course you do. Of course, because I do, too! You and I really were meant to be together, 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 heart does feel 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.