Too Good to Be True(80)

Smart idea, but after five minutes of shining our flashlights into the branches, we had found neither the raccoon nor my dog. There was no sign of him, not that I was a tracker or anything. We were closer to the river now. That which had once sounded sweet and comforting now sounded menacing and cruel…the uncaring river rushing past, carrying anything along with it.

“So where have you been the past few days?” I asked Callahan, shining my light under a fallen branch. No Angus.

“Becky needed me to do a quick job down in Stamford,” he answered.

“Who’s Becky?”

“The blonde from the bar. She’s an old friend from high school. Works in real estate. That’s how I found this house.”

“You could’ve let me know you were going out of town,” I said, glancing at him. “I was worried.”

He smiled. “Next time I will.”

I called Angus again, whistled, clapped my hands. Nothing.

Then I heard a distant, sharp bark, followed by a yelp, that sickening surprised cry of pain. “Angus! Angus, buddy, where are you?” I called, tripping forward toward the direction of the cry. It came from upriver. In the river? I couldn’t tell.

It was hard to hear over the noise of the rain and flowing water. Images of Angus when I first bought him, a tiny ball of shivering, coconutty fluff…his bright eyes staring at me each morning, willing me to wake up…his funny little Super Dog pose…the way he slept on his back with his paws in the air, his crooked little bottom teeth showing. I was crying harder now. “Angus!” I kept calling, my voice harsh and scared.

We came to the edge of the river. Usually I thought it so beautiful, the rushing, silken water, the stones beneath, the flashes of white where the current collided with a rock or branch. Tonight, it was sinister and dark as a black snake. I guided my beam over the water, dreading the sight of a little white body being swept along.

“Oh, shit,” I sobbed.

“He probably wouldn’t go in,” Cal said soothingly, taking my hand. “He’s dumb, but he’s got some instincts, right?

He wouldn’t drown himself.”

“You don’t know Angus,” I wept. “He’s stubborn. When he wants something he just doesn’t stop.”

“Well, if he’s chasing the raccoon, the raccoon would have enough sense, then,” Cal said. “Come on. Let’s keep looking.”

We walked along the river, through the woods, farther and farther away from home, calling my dog’s name, promising treats. There were no more yelps, just the sound of the rain hissing through the leaves. I didn’t have socks on, and my feet were freezing inside my plastic gardening clogs, which were covered in mud. This was all my fault. He dug all the time. I knew this. Usually, I checked the fence line on weekends for just this reason. Today, I hadn’t. Today, I’d been dress shopping with stupid Natalie.

I didn’t want to picture life without my dog. Angus who slept on my bed after Andrew left me. Angus who needed me, waited for me, whose little head popped up in the living-room window each and every time I came home, overjoyed at the miracle of my very being. I’d lost him. I should’ve filled in that stupid hole, and I didn’t, and now he was gone.

I sucked in a ragged breath, tears, hot and endless, cutting down my rain-soaked face.

“There he is,” Cal said, shining his light.

He was right. About thirty yards west of the river, Angus stood next to a small house that, like mine, backed up to the state forest. He was sniffing a tipped over garbage can and looked up at the sound of my voice. His tail wagged, he barked once, then went back to investigating the trash.

“Angus!” I cried, lurching up the slight hill that separated me from my dog. “Good puppy! Good boy! You worried Mommy! Yes, you did!” He wagged his tail in agreement, barked again, and then I had him. Gathering my dog in my arms, I kissed his soggy little head over and over, tears dropping into his fur as he wriggled and nipped me in delight.

“There you go, then,” Cal said, coming up behind me. He was smiling. I tried to smile back, but my mouth was doing that wobbling contortion thing, so I didn’t quite pull it off.

“Thank you,” I managed. Callahan reached out to pet Angus, who suddenly realized that his nemesis was there, turned his little head and snapped.

“Ingrate,” Cal said, giving my dog a mock scowl. He bent down and scooped the trash back into the garbage can, then set it aright.

“You’ve been really great,” I said shakily, clutching my dog against my chest.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Cal returned.

We walked down the driveway of the house to the street. I recognized the neighborhood—it was about half a mile from Maple Street, a bit posher than where Cal and I lived. The rain gentled, and Angus snuggled up on my shoulder, doing his baby impression, cheek against my neck, front paws on my shoulder. I stretched my jacket around his little body and thanked the powers that be for the safety of my dopey little dog, whom I loved more than was probably advisable.

The powers that be, and Callahan O’ Shea. He came with me on this cool, rainy night and didn’t leave till we found my dog. Said nothing irritating like, “Oh, he’ll come back.” Nope. Callahan had stuck with me, reassured me, comforted me. Picked up trash for me. I wanted to say something, though I wasn’t sure what, but when I glanced at my strong, solid neighbor, my face burned hot enough to power a small city.