Claws & Crochet

Part 27

ZOEY

Around noon, I finally stop sobbing.

There wasn't just one thing that set me off. A bunch of little things did.

Stubbing my toe on a rock. Missing my family. Thoughts of Minnie. Dropping Juliet off because our friend date was done.

But the real culprit was beer.

I knew, even as I was cracking open my fifth can of Coors, that I was making an unhealthy choice. When I first started on my antidepressants, I was lucky enough to discover that one drink had no noticeable effect on my mental health. But there's a threshold, and when I pass it, I roll dice with misery.

Now, after spending a night getting to know Juliet, I know she wouldn't have judged me or made me feel bad about needing to stay sober. But at the start of our little camping trip, she'd shown up with a cooler full of beer, proudly declaring we were going to get wasted in the wilderness.

The idea sounded so fun. I convinced myself the repercussions weren't as bad as I remembered.

Mistake.

I'd barely made it halfway home when the wretchedness crashed over me. Not the true darkness that arrives slowly and drags me under the surface. This is a malfunction with my meds and hopefully short lived.

Parked on the side of the road, the tears fell in rivers. Eventually, I calmed long enough to drive again, but only made it as far as the front porch before I collapsed on a rocking chair and wallowed in my unexplainable sadness.

Well, there is an explanation, just not a satisfying one. My brain sometimes decides to be unhappy without cause.

When the misery subsides, I'm left with itchy eyes, a sore throat, and an aching head. All of these lend a sharp edge to my voice as I search for my dog.

"Bruce!" The screen door opens with a creek as I move to the back porch, calling out for the furry brute. "Bruce! Dinner time!"

The sun hasn't set, but the day seems almost done as charcoal clouds gather in the sky. A rumble of thunder warns of a coming storm.

If I had Wi-Fi at this goddamn cabin, then I would've been able to check the weather. And if I had checked the weather, I never would have let Bruce out to wander freely when there's about to be rain. Trying to dry off a dog that weighs almost twice as much as I do is not a tango I want to dance today.

Only solution: get him back inside before the rain comes.

"Bruce! Don't make me come looking for you!"

I let him out when I stumbled inside a while back, still in the midst of my sobbing haze. Honestly, I'm surprised he didn't scratch at the door hours ago. As another minute or so passes with no sign of the mastiff, I accept that I can't just linger on the porch.

Grumbling about poorly trained dogs that don't listen to commands, I pull on my sneakers and grab his leash. I start my search by circling the yard, looking to see if he just fell asleep and was too passed out to hear me calling.

No sign of a giant tan mound of fur, and Bruce is not an easy target to hide.

Apparently, he decided to go on an adventure in the woods.

The woods mean dirt and twigs and leaves. So many random things I'll have to scrub him clean of if he gets wet on his jaunt. There's still time, a slim chance I can find him before the downpour.

Problem is, the forest stretches out in all directions, and I'm not sure what way he went.

I circle around to the backyard again, calling his name as I go, just in case. As I scan the line of trees, I notice a break in the branches. Not a trail exactly, but the grass seems to have been flattened as if it was stepped on.

While I waffle between trying the not-trail or staying at the cabin, another crack of thunder sounds out like a warning. Or the start of a countdown timer.

"Fifteen minutes. Straight in, and straight out," I mutter to myself. If I don't find him then I'll just pile an arsenal of towels by the back door.

The scent of pine and damp air surrounds me the moment I step into the forest. I focus on my annoyance because the minute I let it go, worry will set in. Bruce might seem like an unbreakable mammoth, but he's not immortal.

What if he got lost?

What if he hurt himself?

No. Stop it. He's just being an ass.

As I push through undergrowth and duck low-hanging branches, the not-trail becomes a no-way-in-hell-could-anyone-call-this-a-trail.

"Bruce!"

The air takes on a humid sticky texture, and the sky grows ominously dark above the canopy.

Rain is coming, and I don't think it's going to be a little sprinkle.

"Bruce!"

A root trips me up, and I stumble, barely catching myself before I face-plant. A snarl of frustration seeps from my chest.

"If you don't show up in the next five seconds then you do not get to lick my ice cream bowl tonight. Do you hear me? No dessert!"

The woods are silent, all the chirping birds and chattering squirrels having gone to ground in anticipation of the coming storm. They're probably watching me from their nice, warm nests, laughing at the silly human wandering aimlessly through the trees.

"You have five seconds, Bruce! Five!" The thick air muffles my shout.

No dog.

"Four!" I call out, a growl in my voice.

No dog.

"Three!" More growling.

Only, this time it's not mine.

Author's note: What could it be???? Thanks for reading ✨💕🐺