The water is low and the sandbar is dried out by the high temperatures of late, making for a leisurely jog along the riverbank. If the coarse sand and small pebbles escorted the river for all one hundred miles upstream, we might have made the journey in two weeks. It doesn’t. Every half mile or so, the sand disappears into the river and I am forced to wade through waist-high grass and a slalom of birch, fir, and pine trees. Each step is scheduled and planned. It is slow and worsened by the swarming insects that bite at my hands, neck, and face.

Lassie is tucked in the nook of my left arm. I slap at my neck with my right hand and inspect my palm in the soft daylight.

The insect is the size of a hummingbird.

Meow.

“No, it’s not a bat,” I say laughing, then add, “Just be glad you’re covered in that mangy fur.”

Meow.

“I know, I was kidding. Now, Murdock on the other hand.”

Meow.

“Probably just lying on the couch resting.”

Meow.

“Cats can’t get the flu? Do you have any research to back that up?”

He doesn’t.

After a long minute, I tell Lassie, “I have a confession.”

Meow.

“I lied. Murdock didn’t have the flu.”

Meow.

“He got neutered.”

Meow.

“It means he got his balls chopped off.”

Lassie swipes at my face with his good paw.

I squeeze him until he calms down.

“It wasn’t my decision.”

Meow.

“Because he nearly humped the neighbor’s poodle to death.”

Meow.

“Yes, Mitzy.”

Meow.

“No, he will be exactly the same, he’ll just be a couple pounds lighter.”

Meow.

“I don’t know what they do with them. I doubt they are in my dad’s freezer.” I take a breath and add, “Anyhow, I just wanted to tell you.”

Just in case we didn’t make it. Just in case this was our last day together.

This started me thinking about what I would tell Ingrid right now if I knew things were going south.

I look down at my watch.

3:32 a.m.

What would I tell her if I only had twenty-eight more minutes with her?