I shoot up Route 24. After a clot of traffic breaks up around the Silver City Galleria, it’s clear sailing to the 495 West exit. Four ninety-five opens like a smooth pathway for me; even the inevitable road construction doesn’t slow me down appreciably. I feel like I’m flying. A look at the speedometer and I realize that, actually, I am. I slow it down from eighty to a more reasonable seventy-five and hope that no cop in the area will believe that a dull brown Chevy is doing ten over the speed limit. I am prepared to cry if stopped. I’m prepared to convince any trooper who might stop me that he should give me an escort all the way to Worcester—sirens blaring and lights flashing, letting everyone know they need to make way for an outraged woman.

I fluctuate between believing that Artie has kept Mack with him all this time and dread that he has no idea where the dog might be.

In what feels like a lifetime, I haven’t allowed myself to think about not recovering Mack. I won’t think about life without him. I will go to the ends of the earth to find him. Too many others in my life have chosen to live without me; I will not choose to live without Mack. Not when there’s the slightest hope.

*   *   *

Mack and I are performing during the lull before best in show is judged at a benched show in Portland, Oregon. It is by far the biggest event we’ve been to. Saundra and some of the other members of our freestyle club are here and have already performed. Mack and I are going to premier our newest dance, choreographed to the Beatles’ “Help.” It is a change from “Puttin’ on the Ritz” and has lots of new moves.

I come out by myself, pretending to be a lonely woman. Once the lyrics reach the words “but now I’m not so self-assured,” Mack comes dashing out of the wings, prancing around me, pulling playfully at my pant legs, and leaping into the air to bounce over my bent back, portraying someone trying to cheer a friend out of a funk. It is a showy piece, featuring his high-jumping abilities and comedic skill.