An Occurrence on Interstate Five

After Grandpa died, Grandma retired early and adopted three big German Shepherd dogs. Two were purebred, young and impetuous. The third was a mix, older, and the smartest. Grandma was devoted to those dogs. In the evenings, they all attended obedience classes. Mornings, they strolled through the neighborhood and on weekends, romped at the dog park. She brushed their coats and scratched their ears. She squeezed them into the back of her car to run errands. She’d even bought a motor home just so she and her dogs could all travel together in comfort.
In return, the dogs guarded the house, listened with heads cocked to her opinions, and nudged her with comforting noses when she cried. She was proud of their willing obedience and delighted in their companionship.
They were a bonded pack, a family.
Now, no one knows exactly what happened on that autumn evening when Grandma and the dogs were traveling in the motor home, returning from a trip to Canada. I was away at college, but I’ll tell you what I think might have happened, based on the police report, and what Mom told me.
Grandma was driving on Interstate Five about an hour south of the Canadian border. She was nearing the county highway exit that would take them home. Traffic was light and it was approaching dusk at the end of a cold, clear day. Grandma had probably just switched on the headlights as she cruised along in the left-hand lane. I don’t think she saw the semi in the opposite lane when it came hurtling down the hill and around a curve screaming with speed, but she must have seen it bounce off the guardrail and float up into the air and across the median like a strange monstrous dragonfly—the cab doors opening like stunted wings behind dark, shiny window eyes, the whole long body drooping lazily behind.

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