The trouble with short dogs

After returning home from my weekly Meals on Wheels delivery today, I decided to take Abe out. I grabbed my house key and a doggie pickup bag, actions that Abe immediately recognizes. I said the magic word, walk. Abe began to prance about in his usual manner, the back half of his body bopping from side to side. I pulled my coat and hat from the closet, laced up my sneakers and grabbed Abe’s leash. But Abe was not at my feet.

I turned in a circle. Abe wasn’t in the room. I tried to make sense of this. “Walk” is the second best word in Abe’s vocabulary (the best being treat), and from the moment he hears it, he stays glued to my side.

“Abe?” I called. He must be up to something really bad to be distracted from a walk. I heard a thud. I wasn’t sure where it had come from. Upstairs maybe?

My mind raced in search of an explanation. Maybe someone had broken in while I had been out earlier, and now he was hiding upstairs. He had just struck Abe over the head with a blunt object. Maybe I was next.

“Abe!” I cried desperately, keeping an eye on the front door in case I needed to bolt.

There was a scratching at the closet door. I opened it. Out popped the happiest dog in the whole world. There’s that saying about how the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Yeah, that’s true.

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