“TONY BOLTED through the open gate!” This was my husband Patrick’s shout of alarm, which sent me flying off the couch. Now, with my sock feet striking the street, I was speeding down our block, searching for our brand-new rescue pup.
“I can’t keep up,” Patrick called as I sprinted past him. Panting, he pointed toward University Avenue with its stream of trucks and cars hurtling into and out of Berkeley.
Tony had arrived the previous night after a twelve-hour van trip from Tijuana with twenty-nine other dogs. In a dimly lit parking lot, I’d received the sweet, warm bundle, his heartbeat thrumming in harmony with mine. All night, I’d clasped him to me—only, inconceivably, to lose him in the morning.
As if on split-screen, I had a moment’s view of myself: a seventy-five-year-old woman with a blaze of silver hair, no shoes, galloping zigzag through a surge of cars. I found myself leaping over fast-food cartons, broken bottles, a blown-out tire, past men and women in masks. Masks? My palm to my face. No mask. I pulled up my turtleneck to cover my nose and mouth as I ran. Again and again, I shouted through the cotton fabric, “Have you seen a small white dog?” A woman in a sari pointed, “Yes! That way!”
I kept following pointing fingers. I ran past Victorian houses, past stucco bungalows. I breathed in local smells—jasmine, garbage, sage, curry, skunk—or was it marijuana? My mind tilted and spun.
Way down a quiet street, I saw a young
