The radio said it was the wettest January on record.
I’d believe it.
Today the rain started before my first sip of coffee and continued until long after the sun had set. But I didn’t mind the weather. The gloom gave me an excuse to do nothing. So for most of the afternoon, I did just that. I stayed inside my cozy little house and worked late into the night assembling the Edward Hopper puzzle my husband had bought me a few dozen birthdays ago, leaving only once to dump the compost bucket, which was full with coffee grounds and rotting grapes, and another time to refill the bird feeder (those sparrows and yellow-breasted chickadees are terribly sloppy eaters).
And then, of course, there was Amy.
I take Amy out to pee exactly four times a day: once at sunrise, once at noon, once before dinner, and finally just before bed. I adopted her from an animal shelter nearly four years ago, six months after my husband, Harry, had succumbed to his dementia. Harry’s health deteriorated slowly and painfully over the last year of his life. At first, he’d simply forget where he placed his wallet or his glasses, but then a few months later he’d start repeating the same thing over and over again, until, finally, he had forgotten my face and name all together. One of the last things he did before he died was wander off into the woods behind our house. I remember the night vividly: it was cold and wet and I screamed myself hoarse as I stumbled panic-stricken through the darkness searching for him. Eventually a police cruiser pulled into our driveway with Harry drenched and shivering in the backseat.
Amy helped me get through it all and come out the other side. At the animal adoption agency there were a number of different breeds to choose from, but I was drawn to Amy the moment I saw her. There was something exquisite about this slightly undersized hound-pit mix with the white and black fur and the friendly disposition. I distinctly remember smiling at her when she was curled up in her crate—and you know what she did? She smiled back. I swear it. But what really got me were her eyes, those big glittering puddles that soothed the soul like a cup of hot tea. I took her home that afternoon and have loved her ever since.
I had only a few pieces of the puzzle left to go when I finally glanced up at the old wooden clock hanging above the mantel. Almost midnight? I couldn’t believe it. Poor Amy—she must be bursting! I had completely lost track of the time. God, it’s like I’m becoming my husband. The man adored his puzzles and wouldn’t—couldn’t—go to sleep before he laid the final piece. Even now and then I can still envision his thick hands gingerly flipping over the pieces, scrutinizing each one before placing it down into one of his many piles. We would’ve been married forty years this April…I miss him when I do my puzzles.
I stood up from the couch and looked over at Amy. She was in her bed, coiled up tight like a freshly baked cinnamon roll. She slept so peacefully that I hated to have to wake her, but routine was routine; otherwise, she’d be mulling about in the middle of the night, whining at the door until she couldn’t hold it any longer. I didn’t want to put either of us through that…again.
I tiptoed over to where she was sleeping and gently put my hand against her side. Those big eyes of hers fluttered open softly. “Hi girly,” I cooed. At first, she was confused, but then she gave me a look of recognition and slowly began to stir. Amy performed this whole ritual whenever she got out of bed: she’d enjoy a big stretch, where she’d arch her back and extend her two front paws as far as she could reach, then she’d give her whole body one big shake.
I gave her chin a tickle, and together we walked over to the closet.
Amy’s coat hung right next to mine. I bought it for her last Christmas, a pretty red jacket that I’d be able to spot when she played around in the snow. As soon as she sees me pull it off the hanger, she gets this look in her eye and starts wagging her tail uncontrollably. That’s what she was doing now. I bent down and slipped the front of the jacket over her head and attached the Velcro straps loosely around her mid-section. Then I put on my own puffy jacket and grabbed a pair of rubber boots before clipping Amy’s leash to the back of her collar.
I opened the front door cautiously—I’m not sure why—and let Amy lead us out into the dampness. The odor of wet dirt was strong. By this point in the night the rain had stopped, but a few lingering storm clouds snuffed out the moon and cast a heavy shadow across the lawn. My eyes were slow to adjust to the inky blackness, and I could barely see more than an arm’s length in front of me as we plodded forward. I waited for the sensor light, but realized that the bulb still needed to be replaced. I wish I hadn’t been so lax about ordering a new one. It’ll be the first and only item on my to-do list for tomorrow morning.
Amy started pulling as soon as we stepped outside. Usually, she’d take her last pee of the night somewhere near the bushes next to the house, but tonight she moved with an uncharacteristic determination out into the fog drenched field. Leash in hand, I did my best to guide her calmly back towards the bushes, but she resisted and just kept dragging me forward. Maybe she saw something move? A more probable explanation was that she smelled something. Amy was part blood hound and that nose of hers could pick out a possum rummaging through a dumpster more than half a mile away.
Not a noise could be heard besides the chatter of the tree crickets and the mud squishing beneath my shoes. I struggled to keep pace with Amy as she towed me forward. I tried shortening up on the leash, but it didn’t do much to slow her charge. My fingers felt stiff and my hand started to throb. I gave her collar a forceful tug. “Amy, stop!” I hissed. But she ignored the command and kept dragging me further and further out toward the tree line.
We were about a hundred feet from the house when Amy suddenly stopped. Her tail went straight and rigid and she looked like one of those police dogs from the old comic strips. She stared off into the distance. I squinted hard and tried to follow her line of vision, but all I could make out was a tangle of menacing branches amidst the darkness. I looked down at Amy but she didn’t return the favor. She was focused on whatever it was she thought she had seen.
A gust of wind rattled the spindly tree limbs. The hair on the back of my neck bristled. I tugged at the leash but it was like trying to move a cinderblock. I glanced over my shoulder at the house. The lamp in the living room glowed dimly. It all seemed so far away. If something emerged from the shadows, I don’t think I’d be able to out run it. I imagined Amy would protect me. But what if it was a coyote? Some nights I’d hear them shrieking behind the house like some demonic church choir. Nasty creatures, coyotes…
WOOF! WOOF!
I jumped. So did Amy—I don’t think even she expected her bark to be that loud. Something rumbled in the distance. WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! Amy’s bark echoed through the air. I didn’t see anything. I continued looking out into the forest, unsure if I really wanted to detect anything. From down the road a faint light inched closer and closer, and I felt a twinge of relief when the truck finally crested the hill. As it passed my house, its powerful headlights momentarily illuminated everything around me. I swiveled my head from side to side and did my best to peer out into the blackness just beyond my property. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I gave Amy’s leash another try: “Come on, girl. Let’s pee and go back inside where it’s dry and warm.”
WOOF! WOOF!
The car was long gone but Amy stayed at attention. She kept barking and barking, fixed intently on something beyond the trees. Now she was dragging me along behind her. “Amy!” I shouted. “Stop! No! No!” But she ignored me again. I kept pulling, the fibers of the leash now digging painfully into my wrist. Then my chest started tightening. I gasped for breath but it didn’t slow my pounding heart. There couldn’t be anything out there; there just couldn’t be.
Amy stopped a few feet from the tree line and sat down next to me. Her ears perked up. I’d heard it, too. A rustling. She gave another bark, but this one sounded more inquisitive than aggressive. For some reason I expected something to bark back. Nothing did. All quiet except for the chirping of the crickets. So the two of us just stood there, huddled together, listening intently to the unknown.
After a few heart-pounding moments I tried the leash again, and this time Amy didn’t resist. Once in motion, she trotted along my side as we trudged through the muck back toward the house. We made a quick detour to Amy’s favorite set of bushes, and I watched with relief as she squatted down and enjoyed a long and thorough tinkle. After she finished, Amy gave a little shake and scratched at the spot. We were finally ready to go in.
I reached for the handle and noticed the door was already slightly ajar. A chill crept over me. I took a breath and pushed the door open slowly, groping for the light switch along the wall. The overhead lights flickered on and I quickly scanned the room before stepping inside. Everything seemed normal. Amy stayed by my side as I inspected the closet, the guest room, the guest room closet, the bathroom, the den, and, yes, even the boiler room.
Nothing. I felt foolish.
Amy sensed my distress and rubbed her head against my leg. I looked at her and gave a smile. She gave one back. I bent down and unclipped her collar, a gesture akin to a kiss goodnight, and watched her retreat languidly back to her bed. She plopped down and gazed dreamily until her eye lids quivered and fell. I watched her sleep for a minute. I noticed the lamp by the couch was still on, so I walked over to turn it off. Before I did, I looked down at my Edward Hopper puzzle. Someone had finished it.
The End