The Pit Bull and the Peekapoo
‘Jake!” my husband called out. “Jake!” I shouted. “Jake, where are you, boy?”
Our voices echoed in the bitter wind whistling through the hickory trees. The light draining from the December sky, we tramped through the wet leaves and grass stretching behind our house. “Jake!” I yelled, squinting at the thick woods out back, woods filled with foxes, owls and hawks, hungry predators all. And Jake, a mere five furry pounds, would be easy prey.
“Maybe he’ll come back on his own,” my husband said.
“Jim, he gets lost in our back seat.”
Jake was definitely an indoor dog, a puddle of spilled cream with two raisin eyes and a black button nose. All of our previous dogs had been large, rangy outdoor animals, the kind that take you for a walk, but when our last one, an English shepherd named Sass, got run over on the road in front of our house, I swore,
