the wife, asked Maureen.
“We had to. She found something dead in our alley and before I could stop her, she flipped over and rolled in it.”
“Eew,” we all said.
“Thank God Miss Puggles doesn’t do that,” Tabitha said. “She wouldn’t deign to.”
We watched as Miss Puggles sassed around the park, heavy-snouted with a light, sashaying rear. Baxter spun away from Daisy and tried to entice Miss Puggles into playing. Eventually, he turned his sights back on Daisy, and the whole thing started again.
“So you have Baxter back,” Al said to me.
“Yeah. I missed him so much.”
“I don’t know how you guys do it.”
He said this to me at least a few times a month.
His wife swatted his arm. “Al, leave it.”
“Hey, have you guys ever tried that bitter apple spray?” Maureen said. “Daisy is still chewing the one end of my couch. It’s making me crazy!”
We talked for the next thirty minutes about all things dog, from the food we fed them and their digestive systems, to their antics and habits.
The group broke up when Maureen announced she had a lunch date.
“Great. Have fun,” I said, wishing I had a lunch date myself. But who did I want that date to be with? I had no idea.
I hadn’t met many people since Sebastian and I split up. I’d made a stab at internet dating, but felt too out of the game to make a decision to go out with any of the guys who’d written me. I’d since canceled my membership. I was too concerned, apparently, with picking over the life I’d had with Sebastian.
But now that I’d decided to move on, I should grab opportunities. Maybe I’d go out with the weather guy that my broadcaster friend was always trying to set me up with. Maybe I’d try to date online again. I’d go after business harder, maybe start courting some of the local magazines more so I could style their shoots.
Bax and I continued our walk and when we reached the busy intersection of North and Clark I decided to take Baxter toward the nature museum and the creek behind it.
We stopped for a moment at the corner. “Sit,” I said to Baxy. He did so obediently. I smiled a smug grin, thinking, He is such a good dog. Sebastian and I got so lucky.
“Hey, Mrs. Hess.”
It didn’t used to irk me when people called me that. Sebastian was fairly well-known in Chicago and I was known as his wife. So although I hadn’t taken Sebastian’s name, preferring Jessica Champlin to Jess Hess, I never minded. But now that we were split up, now that I was on my own, it bothered me.
I turned. Then it didn’t bother me so much. “Hi, Vinnie.”
Vinnie was a sweet fifteen-year-old kid. I’d known him for a few years, since Sebastian and I had moved to this neighborhood. Back then, he went by William or Will. That was his middle name. (Apparently, his parents had named him Vincent only as a tribute to a grandfather who died on the day he was born.) But recently, upon entering high school, apparently in protest to some perceived injustice, Will started calling himself Vinnie. His parents hated it, so he kept using it. He’d told me this one time when Bax and I were at the park and Vinnie was hanging around shooting short films on his phone.
The kid was always behind that phone, videoing something. Often he chuckled, scolded himself for a bad shot or generally just mumbled low, narrating, apparently.
Once he showed me the short films he’d made. Some were silent, with a sort of French feel. Others were loud, raucous street scenes. He seemed to like the juxtaposition of the two. After that, I’d looked at the webpage where he posted his films, and saw he had a lot of followers online. A hell of a lot more than I did.
“Hey, Baxter,” Vinnie said. He bent and petted Baxter on the head. Baxter batted his golden tail on the ground.
“How’s he doing?” Vinnie said, pointing to the dog.
“Good. I just got him back from his dad.” Yeah, that was how I talked. I was Baxter’s mom and Sebastian his dad. I was fully aware that I was a childless woman in her thirties whose dog was her kid. (Hence Baxter’s winter sweaters that were just waiting to be worn and the fact that I sometimes signed emails to friends, “Jess and Baxter.” I wasn’t even embarrassed.)
Baxter stood suddenly, his nose pointed across the street, his eyes peering.
I saw a mastiff walking with his owner. (His dad, I mean.) Although Baxter weighed all of fifteen pounds, he often seemed to think he was heavier and wanted to play with dogs much larger than he was.
I considered going back to the park, where it appeared the mastiff was heading, but then Bax strained on the leash even more.
“Sit,” I said.
Nothing.
“Sit!” I demanded, pointing at the ground as I’d been instructed by an obedience trainer.
But not only did Baxter not sit—he ran. Or rather, he bolted.
And not toward the mastiff but horizontally across North Avenue to the opposite corner.
A little toddler, an adorable girl in a yellow dress, stood there with her mom in front of a bank.
“No!” I yelled. “Baxter, stop!”
If there was one behavioral issue Baxter possessed, it was that he not only wanted to play with big dogs, he wanted to play with little kids, a desire that sometimes resulted in him jumping on children, often terrifying both parent and child. Luckily, he’d never come close to biting or hurting anyone and I no longer feared he would.
Until that minute.
Baxter was running fast, and he was headed right toward the toddler.
Vinnie, the little jackass, laughed as Baxter ran. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid raise his phone.
“No!” I yelled, not at Vinnie but at the dog.
By then Baxter had nearly reached the other side of the street.
“Baxter, no!” I yelled again.
And then he tackled the kid. Absolutely tackled her.
The mother screamed and lunged at her daughter.
A truck whizzed by. “Baxter!” I shouted, sure he was going to be mowed down.
Instead, he stood over the toddler, panting.
I charged after him, yelling his name.
When I got there, the mother was on the ground, cradling her child. The girl was surprisingly dry-eyed, but the mom was crying.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, shoving Baxter out of the way with my leg but grabbing his leash so he couldn’t get too far.
Baxter took a couple steps back, but his panting gaze remained on the toddler. She was a little beauty who was smiling and cooing in her mother’s arms, as if she had no idea the quick turn of events that had just happened.
“I’m so sorry,” I said again. I crouched next to mother and child, careful not to get too close. The mom was young, wearing white jeans and a pink T-shirt.
She looked up at me, tears rimming her blue eyes.
“I truly apologize,” I said. “He’s really a friendly dog, but sometimes he doesn’t know his limits. That’s our fault. My husband says I...”
I shut up. What did it matter what “my husband” (who was no longer my husband) thought about a dog who tackled tots? It didn’t matter that we’d gotten