Caw-fee

It's 11 o'clock and Briar's been gone for an hour and a half. N and I have walked up the drive, down the street, into the swale. We've whistled out of every window, called her name loudly even though we know she's deaf, pissed off our neighbors with our calling. I've tried to rouse the dalmatian into looking "Where's Briar" I say in my most encouraging voice. I sit in bed and wait and think the worst. At least I haven't heard the coyotes. Yet. I think. Suddenly I hear the faint bark of the dog who lives on Lookout below us and then a very quiet jingle, but enough to be familiar - it's her collar. A few minutes later on the deck appear a puffing, tired Briar carrying an almost full cup of Starbucks coffee, still warm, with the lid coquettishly off to the side. The cup (it's a grande, definitely not a tall) is firmly between her teeth and she refuses to give it up. So she's fifteen years old, and according to the vet has a urinary tract infection that needs to be treated by antibiotics, and she has a penchant for lattes.