By Ruth Polk
I join him at the door and peer out.
There are three women walking down the street. Chatting.
They are on the opposite side.
Could Pettigrew hear them?
Is that what disturbed?
Front legs splayed, muzzle pressed against the crack at the bottom of the door, he does not yield.
We stand side by side: me looking out, him on alert.
I share what I see, reassuring that whatever threat he perceived has passed.
Together we walk away and settle back down, me at the computer, him on the sofa.
“I write to capture the moments that won’t let go.” – the author