When we took up canine freestyle, no one knew what I was talking about. Dog dancing? What, like waltzing? Like circus dogs? Then the British version of that television talent show featured a young woman with her dog, a Border collie, dancing to a James Bond theme. Even the professionally dour Simon Cowell was impressed. The video went viral and dog dancing entered the world of YouTube. Even Mack and I have made it onto the Internet. Saundra records all our competitions and demonstrations and posts the best of them. What Mack and I like to do best are the demonstrations. These usually take place during lulls in big dog shows, sort of like half-time performances. The crowd can really get into the act, clapping in time with the music, laughing, cheering us on. Mack is a real ham and loves it—the louder the crowd, the better. I’m always mindful of his dignity and will never subject him to some of the weirder costumes my peers often inflict on their dogs, especially the small dogs. Not for Mack some gold lamé outfit. With his natural silver-and-black coat, he needs only a “formal” collar that looks like a black tie. The black tie looks so snappy against his white ruff. Oh how happy he is when he sees me pull out his “tie.” He wriggles and makes this little chuffing noise in his throat, telling me in no uncertain terms that he’s ready to party.

Everything that has been going on around me fades into the background. I have my first real chance at recovering my dog. My dancing dog.

My mind is racing. How am I going to get to where Artie, miraculously, is held up? I have to get there now; if his truck is fixed even by this afternoon, it will be too late. I have to go now. I can make it from New Bedford to Worcester in two hours, two and a half at the worst if the Pike is backed up. It’s already 1:30. He could be on the road by four o’clock. I need a car. I need to get the car keys from Adele. My heart races and my forgotten container of coffee sloshes in my hand as I race back to the hospital, where I dump it in the nearest trash can.

The visitor elevator tortures me with its slowness in arriving and with its painful floor-by-floor ascent. I should have taken the stairs. When I get to the room, Paul is there, occupying most of the rest of the available space in the room. “Paul, can you take Adele home? I need to borrow the car.”

Paul turns to look at me with a crumpled face. “Justine, he’s gone.”

I wonder for a split second how Paul knows that Artie is gone. And then I understand what he means.

My father is dead.

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