Adele has gone to lie down, so I am alone in the kitchen to clean up the minimal debris left from heating a can of Campbell’s soup. It may only be a saucepan and a ladle, but cleaning up without making a sound that might disturb the resting and the dying is hard work, and at the end of it, I am exhausted. I sink onto a kitchen chair, which I instinctively choose, the one that was mine for all those years, my back against the wall. There is a notepad tucked into the napkin holder on the table and I take it and find a pencil. I need to figure out what to do next. I hunt down the New Bedford phone book, right where it has always been, in the top drawer, and try to think of whom to call. Maybe the local rescue can get me started with a search. What I really need is a computer and Internet access. I need to get online and map out a nationwide strategy. I open the phone book, searching for “Animal Rescue” in the Yellow Pages, and there it is under “Automotive”: Markham Motors.

For forty years, my father worked for Markham Motors. He sold Chevrolets until Markham Motors expanded into the foreign car market, and then he sold Toyotas, although he always drove Chevys. Every year, Markham awarded sales prizes and almost every year my father came away with another bronze plaque to hang on his wall at work. The name Markham was sacrosanct in this house. It wasn’t like it is now, people changing jobs and moving from one career “path” to another. In those days, and especially with a man like my father, loyalty to an employer was admirable. As long as he identified himself as a Markham man, my father was happy. He never anticipated anything other than retiring from Markham Motors.

I pull my finger away from the listing and flip the Yellow Pages back to the animal listings. Before I can find what I’m looking for, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the phone number on the display. Then I do. “Mitch?”

“Hi. Just thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing. Where are you?”

“I made it to New Bedford.”

“And the dog?”

“Nothing yet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” I am touched by the fact that this stranger whose body I clung to for a hundred miles is thinking of me. “I have a couple of leads. The truckers are using their CBs to try to locate Artie.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I comfort myself by just saying it.

“I’ve posted your lost dog story on my Facebook page. I’ve gotten lots of comments.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

“So many people out there can relate to losing a pet. Makes you want to cry.”

The image of this tough-looking, one-legged, Harley-riding violinist crying makes me smile.