Then came the Fourth of July weekend. In our neighborhood, this is a big deal. Everyone fires up the grills. The smell of charcoal and burgers fills the cul-de-sac. My next-door neighbors, the Millers, were hosting a huge block party. They have a son, Leo, a six-year-old autistic boy who loves dinosaurs and hates loud noises. Leo had taken a shining to Rex through the backyard fence. Rex, who was supposed to be “dangerous,” would sit statue-still while Leo explained the difference between a T-Rex and a Raptor.
Around 7:00 PM, the panic started. A firecracker went off nearby—too early, too loud. Then a scream from Mrs. Miller. “LEO? LEO!”
The music cut. The laughter died. ” The gate was open!” someone shouted. Fifty people scattered, checking garages, looking under cars. But I saw Rex. He was in my backyard, standing by the loose plank in the fence that leads to the dense woods behind our development. His hackles were raised. He wasn’t looking at the party. He was staring into the darkening treeline. He let out a bark. Not a “woof.” A command. Sharp. Authoritative.
“Let him out!” I yelled to myself. I unlatched my gate. Rex didn’t run—he couldn’t run anymore. But he moved with a terrifying purpose. He limped fast, ignoring the arthritis, plunging straight into the brush. “He has a scent!” I screamed to the neighbors. “Follow the dog!”
I ran after him, briars tearing at my legs. We went deep, past the creek, to where the old storm drains dump into the river. It was getting dark. Rex stopped at the edge of a steep, muddy embankment. He dropped to his stomach and whined.
