I had a lot of time to think, out walking strangers’ dogs, all alone in the middle of nature. What was I to do? Kill the owners? They deserved it for treating good animals the way they did. But then what would happen? The dogs would be sent to the pound and be put down. Was the risk of being caught, and all the work that went into planning a murder, really worth it when the outcome would be an animal’s death? Wouldn’t it make more sense just to kill the dog right off the bat and put it out of its misery?

Dogs live in the present. When they were out with me, happily jogging alongside me with their snouts up in the breeze, neither past nor future meant a thing to them. I tried applying their teachings to my own life. I experienced moments of grace. I tried to decide when the time was right, but couldn’t settle on a definition of happiness.

If I killed myself, I’d stop gathering new experiences. Sure, I’d have no more worries, but that wasn’t a strong enough assurance to convince me to pull the plug. I still had things to accomplish. Like saving Pete. I never found out his real name. I just called him Pete after a character on a TV show. I liked the slightly exotic sound, the vague connotation of rebellion. Keep in mind that, at that point, the biggest city I’d ever seen was La Tuque, Quebec.

Poor Pete was always out on his metal chain, summer and winter. He had a wooden doghouse meant to protect him from the elements, but it did nothing to keep him from freezing in winter and roasting in summer. He slept on the ground. He didn’t even have a blanket.