Little Girl Lost

It was raining the day I picked her up five years ago. I was driving to my job as a library clerk when I saw her racing out of public housing. She swerved from side to side like she was in unfamiliar territory. I could see that she had a collar, so I stopped to try to help find her way. There was no tag on her collar, but I thought an advertisement in the local paper might find her owner. It didn't. The only people who called were only interested in "pit bull," but couldn't describe the color of her collar or her sex. ( I left these details out of the advertisement to try to weed out people who would try to claim her for the wrong reasons.)

I had named her even before she jumped willingly into the back seat of my Hyundai Scoupe. Drew, after Drew Barrymore. Little Girl Lost. When I got her home she ate six bowls of food in a row and panted incessantly because she wasn't used to a heated environment. (She got used to it.( :) She backed away from me, as she does to this day, when I picked up a broom to sweep the floor. Now she sleeps on the couch by the front door, listening in her sleep, for anyone who dares to enter uninvited.

She gives actual hugs, and pushes hands off of computer keyboards until she gets petted. She spins around in spastic circles until she gets a treat. She reads emotions. She's never whined--not once-if it's not worth a bark, she just doesn't say anything at all.

I still remember that day when I picked her up, wet and hungry. I wonder now, which one of us really needed to be rescued? Equal-opportunity wanderers, we were. And equal-opportunity runners, even when we don't yet know where we're going.