The Last Throw

The best sound in the world is the jingle of the car keys. It’s the sound that means the world is about to become a blur of smells and wind in my ears. It means it’s car ride time!

“Car ride! Car ride!” My whole body wiggles, a tornado of happy nerves, my tail thumping a frantic rhythm against the wall. Sometimes it even hurts, but I don’t care. Car rides are my favorite!

Hi. My name is Charlie, and I am a connoisseur of the open car window.

Mike, my human, grunts as he grabs the keys. “C’mon, mutt.” His voice doesn’t have the happy lift it used to, back when the lady at the shelter put the leash in his hand and said, “You’re giving him a second chance.”

I remember her smell. It was like flowers and kindness. I remember hoping Mike’s smell would always be just as warm. It wasn’t. Mike smelled like the unwashed pile of laundry in the corner of the room he often slept in.

Now, my human hands are often sharp. Sometimes, when I get too excited and my claws click on the floor, his hand swings out, a fast, hard thing that makes my ear sting and my heart shrink.

“Why is he angry? Did I do wrong? I’ll be good, I promise.”

Still, the car is a universal good. I leap into the passenger seat, my domain, and immediately shove my head out the window. The wind is a glorious symphony! It tells stories of grilled chicken, of poodles on walks, and rain-soaked earth. We have a usual route, past the big, grumbly garbage truck, then a left turn to the park where the squirrels mock me from the safety of their trees.

But today, the music is wrong.

We pass the garbage truck, but Mike doesn’t turn. The car just keeps going, swallowing up roads I’ve never smelled before.

“This is new. Are we going on a super-adventure? A special park?” I pull my head in and look at Mike. His jaw is tight. He smells of sweat and something sour, like the old milk he throws away, and not like the usual beer smell.

“Just settle down, Charlie,” he mutters, not looking at me.

The unease in my belly, a familiar guest these days, starts to grow. But I trust him. He’s my human. Curiosity rises, and I only hope we are going to a park to meet some new dog-friends.

The car crunches to a stop on a gravel patch surrounded by a wall of tall, whispering trees. This is not a park. This is a deep, green place. It smells of wild things and secrets.

Mike got out of the truck and walked over to my door, slowly opening it. He clipped the leash on, and we walked a short way in. The ground is soft. I sniff a log.

“ Squirrel! No, older. Fox? My nose is confused.”

Then, the miracle. The “click” of the leash coming off. My heart soars!

“He trusts me! He knows I’m a good boy! This is the best day!”

I bounce, my paws barely touching the ground. This is the ultimate “good boy” reward. All the sharp hands and angry words are forgotten in this one, perfect moment of freedom.

“Go on, then,” Mike says. His voice is strange, thick. He holds up my most treasured possession: the slobber-caked, fuzzy yellow tennis ball. My universe narrows to that ball. Nothing else exists.

He throws it. A short, easy toss into some ferns. I rocket after it, my muscles singing, and snatch it up triumphantly.

“Look, Mike! Look! I got it!”I race back and drop it at his feet, panting with pride.

“Yeah, good boy,” he says, picking it up. His hand is shaking.

He throws it again, farther this time. Deeper into the shadows between the trees.

“A challenge! I love challenges!” I crash through the undergrowth, my nose leading me perfectly to its familiar fuzz. I grab it and turn, ready for my praise.

But when I burst back into the small clearing, Mike is gone.

I stop, my head cocked.

“A new game! Hide and seek!” I trot to the exact spot where he was standing. The air is still warm with his scent. I drop the ball and sniff the ground. His footprints lead back towards the road.

“Silly Mike. I’ll find you!” I pick up my trophy and trot after him, my tail held like a flag.

I reach the gravel pull-off. The car is gone.

My tail slows, then droops between my legs. The ball falls from my mouth.

“Thump.”

This is the spot. It smells like him. It smells like exhaust. It smells like me. But the car is gone. Mike is gone.

A coldness, colder than the deepest winter night, starts in my chest and spreads out to my toes.

“He must be close. He’s hiding really well.”

I begin to run. I run back to the clearing, my nose to the ground, following his scent. It just leads me in a pointless circle. I run back to the road.

“Look left. Nothing. Look right. Nothing.” Just an empty, gray ribbon of a road.

Back and forth I pace, a frantic, zigzagging pattern of growing terror.

“This is the spot! This is the spot!” I throw my head back, and a sound comes out of me, a long, lonely howl that is all my confusion and fear woven together.

“Mike! I’m here! I found the ball! Come back!”

The forest doesn’t answer. The sun dips away, and the friendly shadows turn into hungry, dark mouths. Strange noises start—hoots and rustles and creaks. I curl up in the spot where the car had been, my nose on my paws, my eyes glued to the road.

“He will come back. He has to. He’s my human.”

Hours pass. The moon is a cold, uncaring eye. I am so thirsty. My belly is a hollow ache. The hope inside me, once a bright, burning thing, begins to flicker and die.

“He’s not coming back. He threw me away, like the ball. I wasn't a good boy after all.”

For two days, I wander. I drink from muddy puddles. I find a piece of stale bread in a trash can, but it makes my stomach hurt. The world is too big, too loud, too scary. The sharp hands were bad, but this… this nothingness is worse. I just want to go home. Even if home means sometimes ducking. I want my worn-out bed. I want the familiar walls. I want the smell of dirty laundry and beer left in the bottles on the coffee table.

My wanderings lead me, by some tired instinct, to the edges of a park. It’s not my park, but it’s a park. It has grass and benches. Exhausted, I slump under a bush. I am just a lump of matted fur and sadness.

“I’m so tired. So hungry. I just want to close my eyes.”

A new sound. Happy, chattering sounds. A family is walking through the park. I don’t have the energy to run. I just watch them with dull eyes.

A small creature, a little girl, stops. She points.

“Look, Mommy! A doggy!”

I shrink back, expecting a shout, a thrown stone, or someone yelling to get away.

“Don't hit me. Please.”

But she doesn’t come closer. She just crouches down, her head tilted. She smells of sunshine and jelly sandwiches.

“He looks so sad,” she says, her voice soft as a feather. “And he’s so skinny. Is he lost?”

A man and a woman,her parents ,come over. They don’t smell angry. They smell… concerned. Gentle.

“Oh, the poor thing,” the woman says. “He looks like he’s been out here a while.”

The man slowly approaches, moving like the kind volunteers at the shelter I was in. He doesn’t look directly into my eyes, but he glances all over me. He holds out his hand, not to hit, but for me to sniff.

“Hey there, fella,” he says, his voice a low, warm rumble. “You having a rough time?”

I’m too weak and too heartbroken to be afraid. I take a hesitant step and sniff his fingers. They smell of earth and dog treats and safety. A whimper escapes me before I can stop it.

The little girl slowly takes a half-eaten sandwich from her pocket. She breaks off a tiny piece and tosses it near me. The smell is intoxicating. I creep forward and gently take it, swallowing it in one gulp.

“Can we help him, Dad? Can we take him home?” the little girl pleads. “We can give him a bath and a soft bed. Please?”

The man and woman look at each other. A whole conversation happens in their silence.

“He doesn’t have a collar,” the man says softly.

“He’s clearly alone,” the woman replies.

“We can’t just leave him.”

The man looks back at me, his eyes kind. “Okay, buddy. You’re safe now. How about you come with us?”

He doesn’t grab my collar. There is no collar to grab. He just opens the door to their car, which smells of crayons and apples. He doesn't force me. He just waits.

And I, Charlie, the thrown-away dog, make a choice. I look at the little girl’s hopeful face, at the man’s open hand, at the woman’s gentle smile. I take a step. Then another. I put my front paws on the car seat and hoist myself in.

As the car pulls away, I don’t look back at the park. I look at the little girl, who is carefully stroking my dirty fur.

“We’ll call you Lucky,” she whispers.

I lay my head in her lap. The engine hums a quiet, steady song. The window is down, and the wind feels different this time. It doesn’t smell of loneliness and fear. It smells of the future. It smells, for the first time in a long time, like I am finally, truly, a good boy. And I am going home.