…being brave is relative

The night has drawn in quicker than I thought. The unbroken grey clouds muffling the last of the winter sun have stopped me from realising that evening’s almost here. So Lotta and I hurry out. Splishing through the puddles and braving the increasingly persistent rain to get the dog out for a last walk. Wearing her light up collar, sticking close, every now and then darting off into the coarse brush at the side of the path, a green glow dipping in and out of sight before the lure of breadcrumbed chicken causes it to lollop towards us. But emboldened by the half light, she strays further into the woods. And the recall is lagging. The green strip flash out of the corner of my eye.

The reflected London light on the clouds means we can make out paths and trees, but the veil is falling. The wind whips across the meadow, and Lotta, hair slick and plastered is feeling the cold freeze her forehead. I offer my hat and then we walk in single file so she can shelter in my slipstream. The dog still hasn’t found us. I had watched the green light loop onto the upper field and disappear into a small copse to my right.

Lotta finally notices how long it’s been,
“Do you think she’s lost?”
“She’s fine — she’ll be out in a bit” I sound very certain.
“But what if she doesn’t?” a catch in her voice. I dial up the calm and call the dog’s name again aiming for assured, urgent authority. The dog either doesn’t hear or ignores the meaning. Either way, Lotta’s panic has prompted me into action and we move to where we last saw here. I’d normally just try and stand still but it feels like we need to be doing something. If nothing else, so we have a collective sense of progress.

Weirdly, I actually do feel calm. I’m the ying to an anxious yang. I’m certain the dog will return. I’m just not sure when. The more I hear Lotta worried, the more certain I become. And the louder I sound.

“Rio” I elongate each vowel so it sound like ‘Ree-oo’. Loud and long. The wind carries away any sound. I can’t even hear the scrabbling in leaves that lets me know her whereabouts. Lotta’s hand tightens round mine. We both stand, peering into the darkness. I wonder how long I leave it before calling my wife and asking where the airtag has placed the dog. Thinking how awkward it’s going to be to get directed around a dark park by phone; an awful outdoors, mud stricken crystal maze.

But then, a whisper of green from the bushes by the golf course and she appears. Stupid dog.