Humidity formed into droplets on the windshield of the animal shelter’s truck as I drove to a corner of the county where farms hadn’t yet been taken over by the rows of cookie-cutter houses spreading out from the city like a rash. The address, where a dog was reportedly tied to a fence, led me to an empty clapboard house, stained plywood covering its windows like mournful eyelids. The evening sky sat low and heavy. I slid down from the driver’s seat and met the sweet scent of overturned soil mixed with manure. Reminiscent of my grandparents’ farm.
Two tall men stood in the recently tilled field next to the house. One man appeared older than the other. I pushed down the middle strand of barbed wire to duck through the fence from the roadside ditch, just as I used to.
Both men wore leather dress shoes, struggling over the damp lumps of earth. The scene was like a clothing advertisement intended to evoke a posh idea of ruggedness. The older man in jeans, ironed to a whitened crease, with a dress shirt and the younger in crisp slacks and a sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“She’s back there.” The sweatered man pointed to the back of the property. I noted the pronoun.
“We’re leaving now,” added the older man.
“I need you to sign a form after we get the dog.” The men glanced at each other and took clumsy steps backwards. I’d been through this before. “Did you tie the dog to the fence?”
The men turned toward the farmhouse.
“She’s your dog?” They staggered away over mounds of tillage, ignoring me. The younger man gripped the older’s forearm for stability. I watched their escape with patient acceptance, as I did every time my mother drove out from the city to drop me off at my grandparents’ farm.
The two men helped each other through the fence, then disappeared around the side of the house. An engine roared to life. A moment later a black sports car appeared on the road, tires squealing toward the city.
At the opposite end of the field, the barbed wire bordered a foggy creek and moisture dripped from oak leaves. The dog, a small, leggy, terrier-type, had white fur with graying rusty patches. Her deer-like ears turned forward and her docked tail wagged. Four active feet, like dainty pointe shoes, performed in the mud. A faded collar hung on her neck. Threads that had once held tiny fake jewels in a delicate design, now poked uselessly from the nylon. A tattered leash tethered the dog to a fencepost.
“What was that about?” I asked the dog. She stared up at me, her cloudy eyes full of their own questions. “I can relate.”
We retraced my path to the truck. Untied, she bounced across overturned mounds. Thick tartar on her teeth betrayed her youthful behavior.
I broke protocol, tying her leash to the passenger seat instead of stowing her in a compartment on the back of the truck. She paced on the bench seat, then settled with her front paws on the armrest and her face pressed against the window as she huffed condensation onto the glass. On my belt loop the pager buzzed, making the elderly terrier my copilot for the night.