Lost Dog

I see them every Saturday at the park. His shaggy coat bounces with every jump. The boy, Prakash, throws a tennis ball across the field. He’s taller now, freckles cascading down his tan cheeks. His dangly leg kicks out behind him as he throws the ball. “Get it, Rami!”

It’s short for Ramen, the noodle that best describes the pup’s curly blond fur. His paws slash against small pools in the turf. Dark mud dampens his underside. I don’t get much closer. I fear that if I do, he’ll come running in my direction. Instead, I sit at the bus stop for a bus I never plan to take.

My house is four blocks down. An overgrown rose bush obscures my front steps to my cape house. I usually go in through the side door. Mail piles up behind my front door until I gain enough strength to collect it.

Occasionally, the father, Arun, will walk past my house with Ramen. Ramen gets excited. Agitated. He pulls against the harness, yelping and barking. His big paws pressed up against my chipping white fence. The man always yanks him back. “Come, Ram, let’s go.”

He doesn’t know I live there. He doesn’t know Ramen lived there once, too. Back then, I called him Winston.

It was August when I found him. I was microwaving soup when I heard the first yelp. At first, I thought it was a stray cat. I peeked out my front window. The wind thrashed at the trees. Branches tumbled down the street. The wires to my house swayed, dimming the lights. Just when my microwave chimed, I heard the second whimper. Whatever it was was under my porch. I pulled on my raincoat. The hood drooped over my eyes.

As the wind picked up my nightgown, I regretted stepping out. Rain drenched my slippers, waterlogging them with each step. I flashed my phone under the porch quickly, hoping I wouldn’t come face to face with a raccoon. The light bounced off two glowing eyes. I stopped. It whimpered again. This time, a small, dirty paw lifted off the ground. His ears curled back so far that his face resembled a seal's. Wide-eyed, he yawned, letting out another faint whimper. I clicked my tongue for him to come. He scampered over with his tail between his legs. I cradled my arms with him. His wet tongue licked raindrops from the tip of my nose.

After a quick bath, I tried to wrap him in a towel on the couch, but he wouldn’t sit still. He scratched the bedpost when I crawled into bed. His yelps grew louder. I relented. He jumped around the comforter with such excitement. Finally, he collapsed into a ball between my legs. I didn’t sleep well that night, unable to get comfortable without disturbing him. That morning, I knocked on doors with him snuggled in my arms, asking neighbors if anyone had lost a dog. After six neighbors said no, I gave up and walked home.

That afternoon, I was supposed to drive to my sister’s house for a weekend away in the Cape. Despite hours of traffic, we sang, I talked and he listened empathetically. He slept in my lap. We watched the sun set on the beach. By evening, I was smitten. The next two days were total bliss.

I purchased a leash, a dog bowl, and food, and picked out a name: Winston.

We turned into my driveway after a long drive home. Every utility pole had a bright white sign with the words Lost Dog and a picture that resembled Winston. The Patels were offering a reward for anyone who found the dog.

I stayed inside the next few days contemplating. I looked up the family. They didn’t live far. Cautiously, I drove by their house.

Mr. Patel and Mrs. Patel argued in the driveway while a small boy kicked rocks around by the drain. I drove past, rationalizing that it didn’t seem like a good time to confirm whether the dog I found was theirs.

The next week, I drove by again. Mrs. Patel lifted groceries from the trunk. Her belly protruded over her shorts. I wondered if she was pregnant. If she were, adding a dog to the mix would put them over the edge. They’d surrender Winston and I’d never see him again.

The following week, friends filled their backyard for a birthday. I scrunched down in the front seat as I watched children filing into the house with color-wrapped boxes. They had family and friends; Winston was all I had.

One day, I made a horrible mistake. I took Winston into town with me to send a gift box to my sister. As I turned toward the post office, Mr. Patel turned out of the barber shop. Winston leaped forward, nearly toppling me. Mr. Patel jumped back at first. Then he lowered his hand. Winston nuzzled his arm.

“What a cute dog.” He scratched Winston affectionately behind the ear.

I sucked in as I spoke, scared I’d say something stupid like, Thanks, it’s your dog. Instead, I managed. “Thanks, his name’s Winston.”

“I lost my dog.” He knelt. Winston’s wet nose pressed into his cheek. “My son checks the front door every day before bed in case he comes home.” Mr. Patel lingered for a moment.

I started to sweat. “I’m so sorry.”

He gave me a quick nod. I hurried back to the car. It was a close call. We circled the block several times before I pulled into the grocery store parking lot.

The anxiety gnawed at me. The air felt sophocating. His comments needling my guilty conscious. Winston beautiful coat shimmering in the sun demonstrating the meticulous care I took of him. My hands hid between my legs. The image of his son flashed across my eyes. I slapped the steering wheel. A cheap move to make me feel sadness for his son, when I'm just some stranger with a similar dog.

Winston let out a sharp bark. I jumped. His brown eyes gazed back at me. Dark lines above his eyes resembled eyebrows. They seemed to rise with his inquisitive look.

My voice cracked. The splinters of my guilt pierced through my heart. “Don’t look at me like that,” I sobbed.

His paw landed softly in my lap. I crumbled into a puddle of tears. I couldn’t bring myself to drive to their house. Not after he’d seen me.

The next night I parked outside their house. They sat as a family around the dinner table. The boy laughed while Mr. Patel talked with his hands. Mrs. Patel placed steaming plates in front of them. Her face beamed with them.

I removed the Winston tag from the collar. The leash clicked into the harness. Mrs. Patel stood. I waited until she passed the window. I pulled on my rain jacket with the drooping hood. Slowly, I made my way to their door. The leash fit through the handle of the front door. I tied two knots to secure it tightly. Winston pranced and pounced. I scattered small treats at my feet to keep him from barking. My hands trembled. I waited until Mrs. Patel returned to the dining room. As quickly as I could, I rang the doorbell.

My feet took off before I could even decide whether to stay or go. I hid behind the car. Winston pawed at the door. He let out a shrill bark. Finally, the front door opened. Mrs. Patel let out a high-pitched yelp as Winston collided with her. Mr. Patel grabbed Winston by the harness. All three of them flew out the door onto the porch. Their voices jumped with excitement and anger. Mr. Patel raced out into the street. His gaze flew over my car down the street. I cowered by the front wheel.

Slowly, all three and Winston clambered back into the house. I watched as they cried and hugged each other. I watched as Winston jumped up on his hind legs to give slobbery kisses. I cried.

Now I spend an hour a day waiting for him at the park. Watching him play ball with Prakash. It’s painful. The house feels quiet, my bed feels cold. Every night, I fidget trying to get comfortable in my empty bed. His bowl still sits in the kitchen. I left his name tag on the hook by the door where his leash once hung. They took my dog.

Mr. Patel raises a hand in a wave. I scrunch back. He waves again. I stand up. I turn to leave. I can’t handle it if Winston sees me. Instead, I return to my quiet house. The earmarked pages on my computer blink on as I move the mouse. Several dog pictures smile back at me. I want to love one of them, but none of them are Winston