His Cheating Heart

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never took our dog for the cheating kind. After all, he’s a Labrador retriever—the model of canine loyalty. And if I do say so, he’s a mighty fine example of the breed. He comes when called, sits on command and fetches anything you could ask for, including the morning paper and cans of dog food. With a broad blocky head, he looks like we ordered him straight out an L.L. Bean catalogue. In reality it was the newspaper. We brought our handsome ball of fur home during our first year of marriage and he quickly became our “child.” But three years later, when we moved to a sleepy mountain town—where the streets are like sidewalks and the dogs roam free—our dog began leading a double life.

Upon moving in, we considered installing an invisible fence like some of our more responsible neighbors. Instead, we settled for a collar with his name and our phone number on it. While it may have seemed imprudent to let him roam free in the neighborhood, every time we pulled into the driveway he was anxiously awaiting our return. We boasted about his steadfast devotion. “He’s just not the wandering type,” we’d say.

Other dogs in the neighborhood loved the freedom, but not Bailey. In fact, he’d start to pout every morning as I gathered my things for work. By the time I reached my car, he’d melt into a pitiful heap of yellow fur. And as I opened the car door, he’d release a perfectly-timed sigh as if to say, “Leaving again?”

After about six months of this dance, Bailey began following my car out of the driveway. I was thrilled, figuring he was making a beeline to the gang of friendly dogs across the street. Having memorized the sound of our cars, our astute and loyal dog would still meet us in the driveway every afternoon. He’d run home in a dead sprint just in time to lick our faces as we opened the car door.

But looking back, the signs of his infidelity were all there. Over time Bailey was slower and slower to return in the evenings. We’d sometimes have to call him from our back deck.  It only took a few yells to hear his nails tapping on the blacktop and see a streak of yellow bursting through the row of cedars in our backyard. This routine went on for months without suspect.