Free Give the Dog a Bone by Leslie O'Kane

figured out that she could barrel into me just like she had the door, only with better results.
    “Can you please take her leash from me for a minute?”
    He hesitated a moment, but then said, “Sure,” grabbed the leash firmly, and I let go. My fingers felt as though they’d been turned into painful arthritic claws. Maggie strained against the leash, but knew she was no match for this much stronger male person now holding her.
    The other investigator returned with the dog seat belt, and I snapped it around Maggie’s shoulders and asked the officers if they’d keep a hold on her leash until we got her into the back seat of my car.
    “You’re going to put this dog into a
car
?”
    “She’ll be fine. She’ll think I’m taking her to her owner. And she’ll be belted in the back seat where she can’t get into trouble.”
    We made our way outside. As I’d predicted, far from resisting, Maggie tried to outrace us to the car. I had the harness buckled into the seatbelt before she knew what hit her. Now, though, she tried to get free from that, but the belt held her in a less-than-upright position, so she couldn’t get her limbs fully extended to put much force into anything.
    I allowed myself a brief sigh of relief, but knew that my work was far from over. “Lie down.” She almost was in a fully prone position, but the key was to give the command first so that I could praise her. The instant her belly was fully on the back seat, I said, “Good dog, Maggie,” and stroked her. She needed desperately to be soothed, but doing so in advance of her reaction to the command only rewarded and encouraged her wild behavior.
    The men were watching her with expressions of disgust on their faces. “Are you going to be all right with that dog?” one asked.
    Holding up one finger, but still keeping my vision focused solely on Maggie, I said, “Lie down. Such a good dog. Hand me the pen and pad in the glove box. Please.” I dashed off a note to Ken indicating that Maggie was fine— which was reasonably accurate—and that I was taking her home with me, so he should call me there. Then I asked the investigators, “Could one of you please go back inside, stick this on the table, and lock the door behind you?”
    “Sure thing,” one of them replied. I thanked him and started the engine, though the question
Now what?
was foremost on my mind. Maggie would only develop barrier anxiety again, once inside my home with no sign of Ken.
    “You need some of T-Rex’s Clomicalm, don’t you, Maggie?” I glanced at Ruby’s trailer, but was not about to give Maggie another dog’s medication.
    I drove off, deciding to keep taking left turns to buy me some time until I could devise a plan. Just about the second revolution around the trailer park, I gasped at a realization that hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: My dinner with Russell!
    Maggie was letting out frantic little whines with her every pant. “Oh, Maggie. You know what? If I had even an ounce of sanity, I’d be making love for the first time in
years
right now with a wonderful man who loves me. But, no, I’m driving in circles with a frantic golden retriever, who’s never even been taught her own name. Yes, Maggie. That’s right. I’m the one who should be on Prozac. It’s we
people
who are the crazy ones. And don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”
    Maggie let out a long, plaintive whine, still struggling to get into the front seat. We were on Violet again. It occurred to me that, somewhere nearby, was Maggie’s veterinarian, Dr. Palmer, who, sight unseen, had been bad-mouthing me. It was unlikely that her office was still open at this hour, but it was worth a shot. Maggie truly was in need of narcotics—not as a means to deaden a dog’s exuberant temperament as with T-Rex, but to alleviate high-level anxiety, which was the intended purpose of the medicine.
    I slowed and scanned both sides of the street. The office must be well hidden. Finally, though,