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.
