Rusty is our Australian Shepherd. He’s fourteen years old, which is about ninety-eight in dog years. He has hips full of arthritis and eyes clouded by cataracts. He spends most of his days sleeping on the porch rug, dreaming of the days when he could outrun a quarter horse.

But tonight, the rug was empty.

I ran to the pickup, my slippers soaking through instantly. The thermometer on the porch read twelve degrees. A man in flannel pajamas wouldn’t last an hour out here.

As I drove down the gravel driveway, the headlights cutting through the sleet, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I thought …