I turn, moving snail-slow because the stupid bridge just won’t stay put, crawling on my belly so I won’t lose my footing again.

Almost to the end, I glance back, like a fool.

Just in time to see the car with the puppy lurch loose from its mooring in the tree, swirling into the middle of the creek like a toy boat in a bathtub.

The puppy isn’t howling or anything. He’s just lying on his belly, same as me, waiting.

What a nincompoop, I think yet again, and I’m honestly not sure whether I mean him or me.

hero

I will not lie. I am not thinking, Oh yay, now I get to be a hero.

Nope.

I’m thinking, You have got to be kidding me! Just a few more seconds and I woulda been outa here.

I may or may not use a few other choice words. Way worse than anything that jay came up with.

Then I run back to the middle of the bridge and wait a split second, maybe two, maybe three, and I jump.

cartoons

And I ain’t proud of this, but halfway down I remember that I really, really, really don’t like riding in cars.

I’m sort of dog paddling the air, thinking I can slow things down—maybe even reverse direction—like Wile E. Coyote in those old cartoons.

Cartoons are ridiculous for a reason.

not a movie

So in a movie, I’d land all graceful and tough and grab that little guy.

But this isn’t a movie.

I kinda land on top of him. Legs splayed like a bug on a windshield.

Not enough to smush him.

But definitely enough to annoy him.

The car spins, dips, rights itself.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m your uncle Bob.”

“If you’re my uncle, why are you trying to kill me?” he asks.

Pup has a mouth on him, for being so tiny.

“I’m saving you, dude.” I grab his scruff with my teeth.

“Ouch,” he says.

The car seesaws. I scrabble, clawing at the slick skin of the roof. My nails make a horrible scraping sound.

It’s like trying to hug a whale.

“Can you swim?” I ask out of the side of my mouth. It’s hard to talk with a puppy between your teeth.

“No. Can you?”

“Yes. But I suspect the degree of difficulty will go up considerably with a puppy in my mouth.”

The car lists, recovers, lopes along like a jackrabbit in tall grass. My claws make tracks in the paint.

“How’d you get on top of the car?” I ask.

“Wasn’t easy. Branch broke through one of the windows. I climbed out that way.”

“Impressive.”

“By the way,” says the puppy, “I think we may be sinking.”

“No kidding, Sherlock.” I don’t mean to sound unkind. I’m a bit stressed.

“I don’t have a name, actually.”