“If I had a picture of your dog, it would help. On the Facebook thing.”

For the first time, I wish that I’d invested in one of those fancy camera, e-mail, text, do-your-laundry phones. But all I have is an ancient Nokia that simply acts like a phone. “I don’t have one with me. But my friend Saundra does. I can have her send you something.” Saundra is the unofficial photographer at our freestyle competitions. She has dozens of photos of dogs performing, and surely one of Mack can be e-mailed to Mitch.

I get his e-mail address. “Thanks for helping, Mitch. And thanks for calling me. I really appreciate it.” I just can’t appreciate his showing up. That’s the thought dangling out there. For once, I have to keep my eye on the ball.

“Don’t hesitate to call me if you need to.” He sounds sincere, but I doubt that Mitch will repeat this act of kindness. In the old days, I would have told him to come. But I’m older and wiser now; I know how tempting a distraction is, and how destructive.

*   *   *

After I left Anthony, I headed south, attracted by the warmth and the purported lower cost of living. I waitressed in Orlando, worked in a nursing home in New Orleans, got a receptionist’s job in Dallas. By the time Tony was five, I was hollowed out. I was exhausted from the responsibility of being the sole source of emotional strength, of decision making, of punishment and reward. The girls I met at my various jobs were still playing. They made plans to meet at nine at night; I was in bed, my son safe in his own bed, the night-light illuminating the dinosaurs on his sleeper. They invited me out of politeness; I declined because I couldn’t do it, leave Tony with a baby-sitter I couldn’t afford to drink margaritas I also couldn’t afford. To be reckless when I was the only support for a little child. I had taken on single motherhood by my own choice, and I was dedicated to it. But even a dedicated mother gets tired and resentful and frustrated.

The first time Dan asked me out and said he’d pay for the baby-sitter, I told myself that it would be fine. And it was. Then it was Carl, then Bruce, then a host of other men willing to see me as more than just a mommy. Their attention, however brief, reminded me that I was still young, still in my twenties, and maybe I didn’t have to be alone. Didn’t I deserve a little adult time? A few hours more with a sitter at the end of the workday wasn’t going to warp my kid. Even a two-parent child got left with a sitter.