Free Dog Crazy by Meg Donohue

is low now, the sky darkening. I consider just letting Giselle relieveherself in the yard, but at the sound of my voice, she starts hopping around as though the floor has turned into a pit of hot coals. When she does a full-body, loosey-goosey shimmy, I can’t help but smile. I clip on her leash, wrap it around my hand, and we head up the path. I count out long steady breaths, willing the pre-panic bird that flutters uncomfortably in my chest to stay small. The little bird I can handle—the beast, I’d rather not have to find out.
    This time, I make an effort to lift my eyes from Giselle’s back every few feet. Even though I feel more confident, I keep the leash short. My heartbeat is a loud, staccato thud in my ears, but it’s not racing. I feel clear-eyed, determined. Giselle doesn’t call too much attention to herself as she trots along at my side, barely glancing at the people we pass on the sidewalk as we near the shops on Cole Street. She has a self-contained, focused air that, happily, doesn’t invite the fawning intrusion of strangers.
    Toby would not have been so stately. He was more social butterfly than dog on our walks, always prancing up to people, grinning and mugging for a bit of attention. His eyes were joyful, sparkling below his sprocket of bangs, and his furry black bell-bottoms were, in all seriousness, hilarious. I’m not bragging when I say he really was a head turner. Even the most hardened, late-for-work Philadelphian seemed susceptible to Toby’s goofy charms, stopping to pet his silky coat, or tell him what a ray of sunshine he was in the neighborhood, or ask me what kind of dog he was. Even with all of the extracurricular activities my mother enrolled me in, I’d been a reserved kid, a reader and an observer, more inclined to sit on the side and watch than jump in. Toby changed that—he changed me . He taught me that I really could talk to anyone; in fact, it was with Toby by my side that I discoveredhow comfortable people felt opening up to me, telling me stories of their own dogs, and in so doing, their lives. With Toby by my side, I blossomed from a self-conscious teen to a more confident adult. Some of that was just growing up, but some of it, I really believe, was Toby.
    I’m not saying Toby was perfect. For reasons I can’t begin to understand, his usually melodious bark turned high-pitched and annoying when he was around water. He seemed physically incapable of pooping in an easy-to-pick-up pile; instead he walked in circles as he went, resulting in a chain of poops that looked not unlike a miniature Stonehenge. He was a clown who liked to be the center of attention, trotting around constantly when I had company over, to the point where even I sometimes wished he would just lie down. And when he sat beside me, he always liked to put his paw on top of my arm. I’d read somewhere that this was a sign of dominance and shouldn’t be allowed, but I didn’t mind. I let him think he was in charge, and I suspect he let me think the same.
    Giselle and I cross Cole Street and head down Stanyan Street toward Golden Gate Park. There are some scruffy-looking people with big backpacks milling around the entrance to the park at Stanyan and Haight streets. Some are sprawled out on a patchy stretch of grass. Quite a few of them have dogs—playful, bounding puppies and older, thicker mutts adorned with bandannas. I don’t begrudge those drifters the warm comfort and affection of a dog, but I can’t help worrying about the level of care their dogs receive. Sybil Gainsbury has told me that injured, sick, often simply flea-ridden dogs are sometimes abandoned in the area. Every couple of weeks, she walks through the park handing out travel containers of dog food, flea powder, and flyers forinexpensive vaccination clinics. She has invited me to join her on those walks, but I’ve always told her that I’m too busy with work.
    I’d