People are always so quick to offer their judgments, and I’m sure many people would say having a dachshund snuggled under my sweater at such a crowded venue was practically inviting trouble.
But Max suffers from separation anxiety and it had been made worse by jet lag and a hotel room he was unfamiliar with. The poor little fellow could hardly go pee he was so discombobulated. The only place he seemed to settle was under my sweater. I felt a bit like a mother kangaroo with her joey, a nice feeling, since I had never had children myself.
That nice feeling lasted precisely until I walked by a performer who chose the very moment of my passing to clank a pair of oversize cymbals together.
Max let out a yelp, scrambled up my belly and chest leaving, I’m sure, a trail of red welts that marked his desperation.
He exploded out the neckline of my sweater, leaped onto my shoulder and hesitated for only one brief moment before he launched himself over my back.
I whirled in time to see him hit the ground and tumble. He was wearing the most adorable little sailor outfit and the hat fell off. He found his feet and raced off, in the opposite direction of the crowds heading to the stadium.
“Max!”
You would think the desperation in my voice would have been enough to stop the little bugger, but no, he cast one glance back at me, looking distinctively pleased, not frightened in the least, and quickly lost himself in the sea of legs marching toward me.
I practically risked my life to rescue the hat from the crush of stamping feet before attempting to follow him. I can’t describe the pure panic I was feeling, clutching his jaunty little hat to my chest. That little dog is my whole world. I practically own the earth, and in that second, I was aware I would trade every single bit of my fortune for him.
The futility of trying to follow him soon became apparent. I could not make my way through the crowds. Frankly, it was like being in a nightmare where you are trying to run and you cannot move.
My invisibility was terrifying. It was as if no one saw me at all as I pushed the wrong way. I got only brief, annoyed glances, as if I had been drinking too much. As if to confirm the worst suspicions of all these strangers, I suddenly stumbled and felt my ankle turn. Pain shot through it.
I allow myself very few vulnerable moments, but there I stood, paralyzed and trembling, wondering if my ankle, which felt as if a red-hot poker had been thrust through it, was going to give out on me. If it did, surely I would be trampled.
And then she appeared, like an angel. A young woman stopped in that endless push toward the Carlene concert, and looked at me. People flowed around us unceasingly, as if we were two rocks in a stream.
I knew right away she was a good person. Her eyes were huge and brown and probably the gentlest eyes I had ever seen.
“Are you all right?” she asked me. She spoke English, without an accent, which made me think she was North American. She touched my shoulder.
I practically threw myself into her arms and instead of pushing me away, as if she was being accosted by a crazy person, her arms folded around me.
She was very slender, and yet she felt ten feet tall and enormously strong.
“My dog,” I sobbed. “He’s escaped. He went that way.”
Feeling foolish and old I stepped back from her embrace, wincing at the pain in my ankle, and pointed a quavering arm in the direction Max had gone.
It was then I noticed she was with a man. He was one of those supremely attractive types, who have an inborn knowledge of their own superiority. He had that way about him, of a very good-looking man, as if he was doing this woman some kind of favor by being with her. Even though she was being protective of me, I actually, despite my distress, felt very protective of her.
“Ralph,” she said, pronouncing it in the German way, Rolf, “this poor woman has lost her dog. Can you go find him?”
He gave her an astonished glare and looked, rather pointedly, at his very expensive wristwatch. It was clear he didn’t want to miss the opening song of the concert, had probably put out a lot of money for front row seats.
The woman gave him a look.
I saw right away that she was seeing things about him that she had not seen before or maybe had seen but, in the heat of romance, had dismissed. I think he saw her blossoming awareness, too, because he turned begrudgingly to me and with the outmost reluctance asked after the dog.
“What kind of dog?”
“He’s a dachshund. He’s wearing a sailor suit.”
The man—I decided I hated him in general, and him for her in particular—raised an eyebrow at her that spoke absolute volumes. We’re going to miss Carlene’s opening set for a crazy old lady who probably doesn’t even own a dog. But he set off the way they had come.
“His name is Max,” I called out helpfully, but I realized that man was not going to go through the crowd shouting for the dog.
I began to tremble uncontrollably, partly from the pain in my ankle, but mostly from thinking of Max lost out there in this absolute sea of people.
“Are you hurt?” the young woman asked me.
“I seem to have turned my ankle.”
She quickly had her shoulder under my arm, and again I realized she was much stronger than she appeared. She practically carried me out of the press of the crowd and off to a tea stand set up under a colorful yellow-striped awning, with a scattering of mismatched plastic tables and chairs under
