On a crisp golden fall afternoon ‒ right before Vermont turned into stick season ‒ we were tootling around Morrisville. My husband, Charlie, was feeling a little low. He lives with early onset Alzheimer’s disease,  and though you might not notice right away, the challenges are real. Processing information, finding words, even using a fork to eat salad ‒ it’s a lot. So I figured a last maple creemee of the season might cheer him up.

We pulled into Zach's Shack on Route 100 about 4 p.m. Sun setting, air cooling. Charlie’s BFF, Rusto the wonder dog, hopped out with him. I walked up with Charlie to get his creemee and then slipped back into the car to take a quick call ‒ something I do too often, stealing moments for work while Charlie is distracted.

When I came back out, we hit the road. About 50 yards out, I noticed something was off. It was quiet. Too quiet.

“Charlie, where’s Rusto?” I asked. He looked confused. My heart jumped. My mind spun: He left him behind.

I swerved into the next driveway. Looking back, I saw traffic stopped and people out of their cars. In the distance, a tiny white blur sprinted down the road. It was Rusto, our mix Westie/lowrider. I told Charlie to stay put in case Rusto came back that way. Then I bolted down Route 100. A miracle: A woman was cradling Rusto.

I brought him back to Charlie, who was waiting anxiously. The nearest city felt too far, so I stopped at the clinic en route to the interstate. The young vet on duty looked grim. It was peak COVID-19, and clinics were short-staffed with abundance of newly adopted pets. I begged........

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