I’d gone in for a second, just a second, to pee while I let him out to do the same.  I was late getting home from work, and I knew he’d be anxious to get outside.  It was dark, no moon, and he was a small, black pug.  But I wasn’t worried, never gave it a thought.  The road, a narrow, gravel thing, heavily cratered and barely graded, was little used.  I live on, if you’ll excuse me, a dead end.  The few people who actually use it are those few who actually live on it, and there aren’t many of us.  Traffic wasn’t a concern.

I remember zipping up, my mind wandering over that day at work, what to fix for dinner, what was on TV that night.  Nothing more.  He’d come in, I’d cook something from my bachelor repertoire, share it with him, and we’d curl up on the couch together, pretend to watch a program or two before hitting the sack.

Not that night…

…not ever again.

I left the bathroom, walked through the house to the back door.  The night was cool, and I could hear the river, a dark ribbon twisting through the greater darkness, gurgle just beyond the trees and down the bank at the rear of the property, its waters faintly limned by distant houselights.

Standing there on the little deck leading to the back door, I whistled for him, whistled the short, two-note trill I always gave when it was time for him to come in.  Sometimes he’d respond; often he’d ignore it the first half-dozen times until he was ready to come on his own.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)