Driving north on Kenwood Road, I see a dog with a collar dart across the street. I double back when I reach the corner and circle the block. It may be residual guilt about the dog we hit while driving home on I-65 but I’m determined to find that dog.
I come around the corner and cut across the parking lot. Nothing. I call my husband.
“I can’t find that dog anywhere!”
“Maybe you scared him home,” my husband offers helpfully.
“Because he was afraid of the white car chasing him?” I doubt this but appreciate my husband’s attempts at making me feel better.
“You can always hope.” It’s nice when someone throws you a bone.