DARK AT FIVE P.M.

A cold front moves in. The rain pours. More rain than we've had in months. Will Lake Junebug fill up?

Franklin and I are alone. What's the song--every night when the sun goes down, there's not another living soul around?

I miss Harper's large, furry presence.

It's as lonely as marriage. I always wished X would spend time with me on holidays, but he wanted to play games. First, it was board games that had to do with wars. He got rid of all the games, said it was a "problem" that he played them. (It was. He spent more time with the games than with his family.) He didn't give up games. He played at war on the computer.

The phone rings. The voice of the Wooters man raises my spirits: I called to check on you.

We are okay, I assure him. No leaks so far.

The delivery man brought the final items needed for Thanksgiving dinner. He played with Franklin, and asked where the other dogs are.

They died, I said.

Did I tell you I adopted a dog? he asked.

No.

Someone saw this guy throw a puppy through a plate glass window. The dog was all cut up and had burns on his stomach. The guy went to jail for a week. The puppy went to the humane society.

The guy got out of jail. They gave the puppy back to him. Our friend saw the puppy outside on a big choke chain. He could move around some, but his food and water were just out of reach.

Our friend called the humane society. They said they had done all they could do unless they had evidence of abuse. (My thought: Not being able to reach food and water isn't abuse?)

So our friend took the puppy. Went over there and took him. She called me and said, Come get this dog.

We love him, and he's a friend to our older dog.

He dashes into the rain to finish his deliveries.

Ah, the interconnectedness of dog kind. Faulkner trained Harper. Harper trained Franklin. I look at a couple of Web sites with collies to adopt, but don't see the dog who needs us--yet.