“O.K. kids. We’ll lock the door; the dogs are out. If you have any problems, call your grandmother. We’ll be back around four. Be good.”

My sister and I were alone at last. We had the entire house to ourselves. For a few hours there was no one to tell us what to do, or what not to do, and no one to know what we did do. There is no feeling quite so liberating to a thirteen-year-old as independence. I was elated.

Outside, pail-sized raindrops began showering down from a steel gray sky, delivering the kiss of spring to the greening earth. It was the type of weather that because of the rain, carrying a winter chill, and the temperature, taunting summer, a body didn’t know whether to be warm or cold. With the grounding thought of responsibility, I called the dogs in from the rain. Only Sandy came, so I stood in the door to wait for Lance.

Lance was older and fatter than Sandy and often dragged behind. He was a golden retriever given to us when his previous owners moved away. He was a purebred golden; at least that’s what we were told. I always had my doubts. Lance had a habit of taking things (magazines, shoes, clean laundry…) but not returning them. He usually “retrieved” when he got excited about something, which tended to be anything from the backdoor opening to the telephone ringing. Sandy, a German Shepard mix the color of his name, was an uninhibited explorer and Lance his faithful tag-a-long.

When Lance hadn’t returned after an hour-and-a-half, I began to worry. It was unusual for Lance to be out on his own for so long. As my sister’s worry mounted to panic, I tried to calm myself down enough to figure out what to do. We still had four hours until my parents returned, but I refused to admit defeat and call my grandmother. I decided that if my mom were home she would go out and look for Lance, so that’s what I did.

My head bent forward, my t-shirt and shorts soaked and hanging, I fought to see through pounding rain. My mind was reeling with the thoughts and fear I had stifled while with my sister. I ran. Through endless fields, the cut brown stems of last year’s hay amid new purple flowered alfalfa poked into my bare feet. The rain stung my face. I ran. The image of Lance’s wet, soggy body flashed at me from every dropletted leaf, dead. I ran. I called. I ran. I cried. I ran. I ran until my body was numb, until the sky blurred into the field, until my ears deafened to the sound of my own voice. I ran. There was no sign of Lance. Breathless and wholly drenched in sweat, tears and rain, I returned home and called my grandmother.

At four o’clock my parents returned. I ran out to the car. Before they could draw out the entire story, I caught sight of Lance at the end of the driveway. He wasn’t quite standing and wasn’t quite sitting. His stomach was blown up like a balloon forcing his back into an unlikely arch and his head down toward the ground. He could barely support himself as he labored for breath. I helped my dad carry Lance’s soggy, swollen mass to the car. His glassy eyes never saw us.

Dad returned from the vet’s office alone.