Mimi tugs on Folger’s leash but the dog resists. The leash slants in a taunt line as he tries to get away.
She should find the bootie by retracing her steps. It can’t be lost, she checks his feet often; but there is nothing red on the path.
Folger yips. Mimi stops. He lifts his bare paw as a stream of urine drills a hole in the snow. He’s done.
“Come on.” She yanks Folger’s leash.
Why did she get a pet? The bootie is somewhere on the path, right beside her patience and the daydream of a companion dog. Lost.