The phone rang in the late afternoon of the second day. A man’s voice asked, “Did you lose a dog?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, Sir. We did.”
He described her. He described the poster. He would be at our home in a matter of minutes.
I didn’t tell the boys. I didn’t want to get their hopes up. The car pulled into the yard and Love came barreling out of the backseat. My wife had gone inside to tell Atticus and he came out the front door at cartoon speed- a blur of winding legs and clouds of dust. They ran as fast as they could through meadows of flowers and fields of tall wheat, arms wide and tails wagging. They moved in slow motion, a dance of hopes not lost and innocence confirmed. In the distance Louis Armstrong played something soft and tender on the trumpet.
I stood and watched with a stranger in my driveway. I shook his hand and I felt like crying.