The Lost

Well, no point in thinking about it. Just put one paw in front of the other. Dogs can travel amazing distances-you hear that all the time-and they only have their senses to rely on. I had senses and an extremely clear and vivid mental map of Montgomery County, acquired from years of driving clients around to look at properties. Talk about a head start. I set off at a confident lope.

At the corner of York and Custer, though, I paused. A car coming down the hill honked; I scuttled over to the right, into the Givens’ side yard. Something kept me idling there instead of heading left-my route, my way out. Some nagging little thing I couldn’t identify. Not until I turned right and trotted down the sidewalk a little ways and found myself-hey, how did this happen?-in front of Monica Carr’s house.

And speak of the devil. Wouldn’t you know? Sunday was the day Gilbert, the ex-husband, got the twins, so what did Monica do on her one day off, the single childless day of the week she could’ve done anything she liked? Did she go shopping? Take a drive, go to a museum, a movie, visit friends, go on a date? No. She stayed home and perfected her already perfect front-yard pere

There she was, deadheading the rudbeckia. In khaki shorts and a sleeveless top that showed off her tan and her tight ru

I heard the phone ring in the house before Monica did. She tossed her clippers down and ran inside, and that’s when I decided this was my chance. To do what? A dog’s strong suit isn’t pla

Simple to get in-the gate was open. Inside, nothing smelled very interesting; squirrels and chipmunks probably took one look at all the pristine gorgeousness and went next door. Monica had everything: the flowers you’d expect in late August, gaillardia, daisies, asters, salvia, cosmos, and then dozens more you had no name for, everything beautifully banked and clumped and color-coordinated, all of it lush and alive. I was drawn to a perfect side-by-side harmonization of low verbena and feathery coreopsis, deep purple and butter yellow. So simple, so lovely. I had to kill it.

The weed-f ree soil was, as you’d expect, rich and soft and loamy, and digging-I’d been a dog for almost a week now: How had the peerless, inimitable joys of digging in dirt eluded me? It was an all-encompassing feeling once you got going, once you figured out how much more efficient and satisfying it was to use all your appendages, all four feet and your snout. Thrilling, really, and so satisfying to see how high the piles of earth, stalks, stems, and flowers rose behind me, littering the brick walk, obscuring its tasteful herringbone pattern. Why stop at the verbena-coreopsis combo? Right beside it was a swath of ferns and hostas for green relief, and then came a spray of tall fountain grass-that would be a challenge. Excitement filled me. The first hosta plant came out so easily, I made the mistake of barking at it. Take that! Dead as a doornail. I started on its neighbor, one of the variegated kinds I’ve never liked anyway. And that! Die, you stupid plant, die like a-like a-

“Hey!”

Where did she come from? Monica had the phone in her hand. She stuck it to her ear, said, “I’ll call you back. There’s a dog in my yard, it-” She squinted. “ Sonoma?”

Busted.

She made a run for me-I jumped out of reach. She tried another off-balance lunge; I dodged the other way. Great fun. She looked so silly, and I was grace on four legs, shifting and feinting at the last second. Loser, I taunted, juking out of reach just before she could grab my collar. She tried stalking me next, hand out, voice coaxing. “Here, girl, it’s okay, c’mon, Sonoma, c’mon, girl.” Up yours.

We circled each other around the debris on the sidewalk. Then-too late-I saw that she’d gotten between me and the gate. A second later, she reached back and slammed it shut.

Trapped.

Screw you, I’ll jump over the fence. Watch this.

But it was four feet high, and it had arrow-shaped uprights, sharp arrow-shaped uprights, between each iron post. I pictured myself half inside, half out, impaled in the middle.

Okay, you got me, I told Monica, and lay down on the hot brick walk. Now what are you going to do with me?

She put me in the bathroom. I don’t know why I let her. Exhaustion, partly, but also the growing suspicion that I wasn’t a violent dog at all, that growling was my whole arsenal, after which I had nothing. Well, barking, and some fast footwork, but that was it. I even kept an eye on Monica’s calf while she guided me into the house, imagining my teeth sinking into its tan firmness-her shriek of pain-the taste of blood. But I couldn’t do it. What was I, a vampire? No, I was a retriever.

“Sam? It’s Monica.” She was out in the kitchen, but I could hear her plainly through the closed bathroom door. “I just tried you at home, but I guess you’re… Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I won’t keep you; I just wanted you to know Sonoma ’s here. Sonoma. No, here. Well, I guess she got out.” Light laughter.

I waited for the ax to fall.

“I have no idea; maybe you left a… Oh, she’s fine, none the worse for wear. I don’t know. I know, it’s so… No problem, I’m here all day, just pick her up whenever you… Sure, that’s fine. Okay, Sam, we’ll-You’re welcome, see you soon. Oh, please, don’t give it a thought. Bye-bye.”

She brought me a bowl of water. She brought me half a piece of toast with peanut butter. After an hour, she let me out.

Oh, such transparent manipulation. I wasn’t fooled for a second. I snooped around the house awhile, then lay down on the comfy couch in the living room, dirty paws and all. What are you going to do about it? She put her hands on her hips and shook her head in a cute, exasperated way. Uncharmed, I curled into a ball and took a nap.

When I woke up, she was all sweet-smelling in clean clothes and fresh makeup, ru

Be

But it was Sam, not Monica, who said, “Be

“Okay,” Be

I didn’t want to go. Instinct told me it would be better to be there when Monica lowered the boom. On the other hand, prompt, willing obedience was all I had left, so I trotted outside after Be

A neat, empty rectangle of sour-smelling mulch had replaced the massacred flowers and hosta, and the brick walk had been swept clean, neat as one of Monica’s countertops. Nice of her to tidy up the scene of the crime, I thought sullenly. She probably had OCD.