The Foxe & the Hound

The rain seems to grow even louder as I finish washing off. Thunder rumbles as if it’s inside my apartment, a sign that the storm isn’t going to let up any time soon, which is just as well. Rain suits my current mood just fine.

I step out and dry off, waiting for Mouse to rush in and lick the water droplets from my shins. He doesn’t come, which probably means he’s still pouting about having to leave training class without his beloved.

“Mouse, believe me, she would’ve just broken your heart! I’ll let you have some chicken with your dinner. How’s that?”

There’s no jingle of dog tags, no sign that he’s listening to me at all.

Stubborn dog.

I wrap a towel around myself and step out of the bathroom.

My front door is wide open, forced against the wall by the heavy wind and rain. I rush forward and close it, nearly wiping out on the puddle of water in the entryway. I must not have locked it before my shower, and it doesn’t take much to push open the old door. Yet another thing I need to bring to Mr. Hall’s attention now that I’m a paying tenant again.

I hurry back to the bathroom to retrieve a towel to wipe up the mess, and that’s when it hits me.

Oh god, where’s Mouse?

I turn and check the apartment. He’s not in kitchen. He’s not in my bedroom, or the bathroom. The apartment is tiny, and it takes me all of five seconds to conclude that Mouse is gone. He ran through the open door. He bolted while I was in the shower and now he’s out there in the middle of a thunderstorm.

I yank open my front door and shout his name.

“MOUSE! MOUSE! Come here boy!”

I run to the end of the walkway and shout his name again, but he’s nowhere in sight. There’s no telling how long the door was open. He could have a ten or fifteen-minute head start on me. I rush back into my apartment and yank on the first clothes my hands touch. My keys are in my hand and I’m running barefoot to my car.

This isn’t happening.

I refuse to acknowledge that Mouse has run away.

He’s never done anything like this before. My front door has accidently flung open in the past and he’s never cared. He’s just a puppy. He was probably terrified when the door slammed open, and he bolted.

I force my key into the ignition and crank my car to life. It resists, but starts nonetheless.

First, I circle through the apartment complex’s parking lot. I roll down my window and shout his name, ignoring the pellets of water hitting my face and soaking the inside of my car.

“MOUSE!”

Nothing, just more rain.

“MOUSE! C’MERE BOY!”

He’s not here.CHAPTER TWENTY-THREEMADELEINEI try not to panic, but I can feel the worry rising up in my throat like bile.

He cannot run away.

He’s my Mouse.

He’s the one constant in my life.

He depends on me, and I depend on him.

I go back to my apartment to confirm that I’m not crazy, that he isn’t just asleep on the couch. I harbor a false sense of hope that he’s been there the whole time, that he would never leave me. Too bad it’s not the case. I run back outside.

“MOUSE!” I shout once more before running back to my car and broadening my search. I turn right out onto the street. I want to be a math wizard, want to calculate how far he could have gone if he left my apartment five minutes ago, ten minutes, fifteen.

I stick to the right lane and creep along, shouting his name into the fading light of the day.

Cars honk and swerve by me, annoyed at my snail’s pace.

I hardly notice them over my shouting and shouting and shouting.

I check the YMCA parking lot. It’s far, but he has a motive for being there.

Class is over and the parking lot is empty. I loop around and check for Mouse’s black and brown fur, trying to spot the little white patch near his eye. Another bolt of lightning lights up the sky followed by an ominous BOOM. The thunder is loud, too loud. Mouse has to be scared out here all by himself.

I give in to a wrecked sob, but just one—it won’t help if I lose it.

I have to keep it together. I have to find my dog.

I loop around the surrounding neighborhoods then check outside Daisy and Lucas’ house. I glance across the street, at Lucas’ old rental house, but the lights are off and there’s no dog sitting on the front porch. I put my car in drive and continue. There’s no rhyme or reason to my search other than to check the spots I’ve frequented with Mouse in the past. There’s Hamilton Brew; they have a dog-friendly patio out front, but he isn’t there. I stare at their dog bowl getting pelted by rain and I remember not long ago when Mouse and I walked to the coffee shop early one Saturday morning. He waited while I went in to order a coffee, then we sat there together for hours. I read and he people-watched at my feet, accepting any free head pats or ear scratches that came his way. But now, the water bowl is overflowing from the rain and I need to keep going.