How would a meerkat cross a highway? How would a panther face down a city block? How would a wolf survive an encounter with a gun?

For that matter, who do I think I am, playing hero? Nutwit was right. I’m soft. I’m slow. I’m not a street dog anymore. I’m a pampered, lazy pooch.

I hear the rush of water, a different sound from the pouring rain, and out of nowhere, there it is: the creek.

Boss mentioned that the car was near the bridge. But when I get close, I remember what the officer at the shelter said. The bridge had collapsed.

And then I see it.

A little car, round topped, floating, caught in a dislodged tree at the edge of the roaring creek, not far from the crumbled remains of the bridge.

And on top of that car, even though it’s completely impossible, is a puppy.

Waiting.

And all I can think is: That dog is a nincompoop.

another bridge

The creek is filled with pieces of trees, boards, trash cans, plastic chairs, everything you can imagine. It’s moving way too fast for me to try to cross.

I stare at the far side of the creek, at the collapsed bridge. I really wish I hadn’t seen that puppy.

I know there’s another way to cross the creek, of sorts, downstream a bit. An old pedestrian bridge made of wood and metal and rope. No one uses it anymore.

No one with any sense.

When I reach it, the little bridge is swaying like a cradle. It’s blocked off by a rusty metal gate to keep people from using it, but I can easily squeeze through the bars.

I run halfway across, lose my footing, run some more.

Gulp. What am I doing?

A fresh gust pushes the bridge with such force that I slip. Half my body is dangling off the edge. I dig my claws into the wet wooden slats, and oh am I glad my nails are long and sharp because I fight off Sara’s clippers whenever I can.

Pulling, pulling, pulling—man, I wish I hadn’t eaten so much cheese over the years—and then umpph, one last effort and I’m back on the bridge.

It feels good, so good, to return to that little stretch of swinging slats. I want to live. Really I do.

I don’t care about the puppy anymore.

I just don’t want to die this way, not like this.

The fear’s in my throat, my heart, my gut. I’ve gotta get off this rickety bridge, get back to Ivan and Ruby, back to my wonderful, Bob-smelling bed.

I’m not a hero, never have been, never will be.

I can live with that, ’cause at least I’ll be alive.