by Nina Wright
“Oh, Leo,” I moaned. “Why did you have to go? You should be here with me right now…”
Something gentle yet firm was nudging my neck. I turned my head and made contact with a cold wet nose, followed by a warm wet tongue. Abra was awake and, unless I was badly mistaken, trying to comfort me. She vaulted into the passenger seat.
“Hey, girl,” I said. “You got knocked up, too, didn’t you? And things turned out all right. Without any help from the daddy.”
I stroked her head. Her stately Afghan hound head.
“Oh, sure, Norman came around later. After we gave your babies away. Which isn’t an option in this case…”
Then I did something I’d never done before. Something I hadn’t imagined Abra ever letting me do: I pulled her close and held her tight in a soothing big-dog embrace. Burying my face in her tangled, sticky, not-so-sweet-smelling coat, I sobbed 'til I had no tears left. Squeezed between me and the steering wheel, Abra didn’t budge. The diva dog patiently allowed me to hold her as long as I wanted to, which was exactly as long as I needed to.
We were both a mess. A couple genuine bad examples. But we were also survivors; Abra and I could muddle through damn near anything. Leo had brought us together, and we would carry on. The dog, for one, had decent instincts.
Nina Wright
***
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