"Jack! Jack!" I called this morning, when I didn't see our dog on the front porch where he sleeps at night. We always keep him confined to the backyard during the day, since he sometimes disturbs the neighbor's horses.
"Howard," I called to my husband, "I don't see Jack anywhere!" All I could see were his paw prints on my white bench I had been fussing about. His bed that I had made him looked barely disturbed. His faithful owner began scouring the property, checking his dog house, the barn area and in back of the house, calling his name all the while.
Looking out a side window toward the road, my heart froze! A familiar brown shape lay sprawled at the edge of the highway! Oh, no! He must have been hit by a car! My heart broke as I gave the news to Howard when I waved him down in his search.
Sure enough, there was no denying the sad reality when we got up to the highway. We knew he lay in the path of the mail carrier that would be coming along presently, so we tried to pull him out of further harm's way. At some 70 pounds, we couldn't move him far, so Howard called a friend who came out and buried our pet.
Pebbles, our little house dog, is grieving, I can tell, as she hides quietly behind a pillow looking out with mournful eyes. Gone is her playmate, her partner in crime, her best friend and exercise partner.
Howard says he will get another dog, but I don't want one. I had fallen for Jack, who loved me and liked me to rumple his back, bring him treats, and who always came when I called him. Until today.
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