An Occurrence on Interstate Five

Mom knew Grandma and the dogs were due back from their trip that evening. She expected a call, but the voice on the phone was Grandma’s neighbor, Mr. Ryan.
“Chris, Ryan here.”
“Hi, Mister Ryan, how—”
“Your mother’s dogs have been howling over there for almost half an hour.” He sounded angry. “Doesn’t seem to be anyone home. You’ve got a key, right? Better come over and take care of this.”
“Well, isn’t the RV in the driveway?” But he’d already hung up.
Mom started worrying right away. It just wasn’t like the dogs to make a ruckus. What if Grandma had gotten home and, God forbid, collapsed and couldn’t get to the phone? Mom got Dad from his workshop in the basement and the two of them drove over to Grandma’s. Stars speckled the purple sky, and a silver crescent moon nestled in the eastern branches of the trees. They walked up the empty driveway listening to the howls, each dog in turn adding a mournful voice.
“Where the hell is she? The RV isn’t here,” Dad said.
They unlocked the front door and stepped into the living room. The howling stopped. The three dogs sat by the couch, tails swishing in solemn greeting. Otherwise, the room was empty.
Mom called out, “Anybody home?” There was no answer. She trotted to the back of the small house, flinging open doors. “No one’s here, John.”
“Chris,” Dad said, “Come look at this.”
Mom hurried to join him. They stood together in the kitchen, gazing at a big bowl filled with water, droplets splashed on the floor. Three smaller bowls contained wet smears and bits of kibble.
“Well, she fed the dogs before she left,” Mom said.
At that moment, Dad’s cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “This is John Anderson,” he said.
“Mister Anderson, I’m State Trooper Pierce. I found your name and number in Abigail Wilson’s purse. Do you know her?”
“Yes, Abby’s my mother-in-law. What’s happened? We’re here at her house and she’s not here.”
There was a long silence. “I’m very sorry, sir. Your mother-in-law was killed in an accident that occurred about a half hour ago out here on Interstate Five. A semi jumped the median and hit her motor home head on.”
“What? She . . .” Dad slumped against the kitchen counter. “But the dogs . . .”
“We didn’t find any dogs, sir.”
Dad looked over at the Shepherds. The old one raised her muzzle and howled, a low, raspy cry of grief.

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