The door opens a crack.
I think two or three people may have fainted, but we can’t stay to find out.
I hop onto Ivan’s shoulder, and the three of us head off. I glance behind me to see Boss standing on the pavement, watching us.
In the darkness and rain I can’t read her eyes. But I’d like to think there’s hope in them.
traffic stop
We slog up a slight hill and round a corner. The traffic lights are out, and nobody seems to be on the streets—that is, until we cut through a stand of palm trees and come across some police officers in a slow-moving squad car, its blue and red lights circling.
“Attention,” one of the officers announces over a loudspeaker. “This area is under a mandatory evacuation order. Do not—”
The announcement stops, and so does the car.
“Uh-oh,” says Ruby.
“I think they spotted us,” I say.
“We’re kind of hard to miss,” Ivan points out.
The car moves closer, so close that I can see dropped jaws and bulging eyes.
The car brakes to a stop. The driver’s side door flies open and one of the officers jumps out.
The other officer, a skinny young guy, follows suit, but he looks annoyed. “What are you doing?” he says. “Don’t be a hero! We coulda stayed in the car where it’s safe.”
“I am looking,” says the driver into her radio receiver, “at a gorilla and an elephant, and the gorilla has a tiny dog on his shoulder, and no, I have not been drinking.”
“They said the park got hit by the tornado,” says the skinny officer, carefully aiming his pistol.
“We can’t exactly shoot a gorilla,” the driver says, and I like the way she’s thinking.
“Try me.”
“What’s his crime, exactly?”
“Jaywalking?”
“Thing is, I love elephants,” says the driver. “My daughter collects stuffed elephants. I mean, you know. Stuffed toys. Not stuffed real ones.” She listens to her radio for a moment.
“Get animal control out here,” says the skinny officer. “Get a van. Get a moving truck. Get a 747, I don’t care.”
“Ivan,” I whisper in his ear, “this is not looking good. You and Ruby gotta stay put. Don’t make any sudden moves. No funny business, okay? These guys are freaking out.”
Ivan sits down on the ground. Slowly. Very, very slowly. Ruby settles next to him.
The driver smiles. “Aww, that’s so cute.”
Skinny officer nods. “Yeah, in a deadly kind of way.”
“I gotta do this,” I say to my friends. “If you stay calm, they won’t mess with you.”
“But Bob.” Worry clouds Ivan’s face. “You need us.”
“What I need is for you to stay alive,” I reply.
I can see he isn’t going to listen to reason, so I try a different approach.
“Ivan,” I say, “it’s like this. Boss is my sister. I let her down once, and now, well, I have a second chance. I’ll explain it all later, but . . . I need to do this.”
Ivan looks at the officers, guns drawn, then nods. “You are the one and only Bob,” he says. “You got this, pal.”
I leap into the air, into the vast unknown, just like Kimu did.
Well, maybe not quite so elegantly, but I do my best.
lightning and fireworks
It isn’t far to the bridge. But far is relative when the wind is blowing down houses like the big, bad wolf.
I watch a stop sign fly past. I navigate around trees scattered like Popsicle sticks. I keep an eye out for gators and pythons.
Lightning strikes a tree. I brace for the thunder. It shakes the earth, the air, my teeth, my bones.
A branch falls on a power line. Sparks dance like fireworks.
I hate fireworks.
I move with more care after that. I know enough to stay away from downed power lines, thanks to the weather channel and Storm Chasers.
Man, I love TV. I’d give anything to be watching it from my nice, cozy bed right about now.
Good thing I know where the bridge is. My swollen nose throbs. What’s the point in owning a top-of-the-line sniffer if it’s not working right?
When I pass a bird’s nest on the ground, I offer to help the owner, a jay. She swears at me. At least I think she does. I hear “nuts” and some other interesting words.
I tend to forget that in some circles, dogs are considered predators.
I wonder how Kimu and the other escapees are doing. One thing I know for sure, having been on the inside and the outside, is that way too much of the world ain’t made for wild animals.
How would a meerkat cross a highway? How would a panther face down a city block? How would a wolf survive an encounter with a gun?
For that matter, who do I think I am, playing hero? Nutwit was right. I’m soft. I’m slow. I’m not a street dog anymore. I’m a pampered, lazy pooch.
I hear the rush of water, a different sound from the pouring rain, and out of nowhere, there it is: the creek.
Boss mentioned that the car was near the bridge. But when I get close, I remember what the officer at the shelter said. The bridge had collapsed.
And then I see it.
A little car, round topped, floating, caught in a dislodged tree at the edge of the roaring creek, not far from the crumbled remains of the bridge.
And on top of that car, even though it’s completely impossible, is a puppy.
Waiting.
And all I can think is: That dog is a nincompoop.
another bridge
The creek is filled with pieces of trees, boards, trash cans, plastic chairs, everything you can imagine. It’s moving way too fast for me to try to cross.
I stare at the far side of the creek, at the collapsed bridge. I really wish I hadn’t seen that puppy.
I know there’s another way to cross the creek, of sorts, downstream a bit. An old pedestrian bridge made of wood and metal and rope. No one uses it anymore.
No one with any sense.
When I reach it, the little bridge is swaying like a cradle. It’s blocked off by a rusty metal gate to keep people from using it, but I can easily squeeze through the bars.
I run halfway across, lose my footing, run some more.
Gulp. What am I doing?
A fresh gust pushes the bridge with such force that I slip. Half my body is dangling off the edge. I dig my claws into the wet wooden slats, and oh am I glad my nails are long and sharp because I fight off Sara’s clippers whenever I can.
Pulling, pulling, pulling—man, I wish I hadn’t eaten so much cheese over the years—and then umpph, one last effort and I’m back on the bridge.
It feels good, so good, to return to that little stretch of swinging slats. I want to live. Really I do.
I don’t care about the puppy anymore.
I just don’t want to die this way, not like this.
The fear’s in my throat, my heart, my gut. I’ve gotta get off this rickety bridge, get back to Ivan and Ruby, back to my wonderful, Bob-smelling bed.
I’m not a hero, never have been, never will be.
I can live with that, ’cause at least I’ll be alive.
I turn, moving snail-slow because the stupid bridge just won’t stay put, crawling on my belly so I won’t lose my footing again.