It was late summer when I first noticed that something was wrong.

When your job requires you to walk the same path, day in and day out,

you get used to people's routines.

You learn whose kids play outside and at what time,

which neighbors like to have a quick chat with their mailman,

and which prefer to be left alone. You know who's home

by the cars in their driveway, and who has a pet, and who doesn't. My route has a particular

hum and rhythm that I'm used to, so I can sense when the beats off. I walked up to the

Miller's house and was struck by an odd sensation.

Something was missing.

I couldn't shake the feeling as I walked up to deliver their usual collection of fashion magazines and spam credit card offers.

Mrs. Miller happened to be coming out as I was placing the letters in the box.

Oh, that was it! We sometimes crossed paths when she was heading out to walk the family dog, Shadow.

He was an older Rottweiler, maybe 11, whose fur had become more gray than black,

and he always greeted me with a half bark, like he wanted the family to know I was there,

but couldn't be bothered

to raise a ruckus about it. I hadn't heard him as I walked by, and I could see Mrs. Miller

didn't have him either.

Hey there, Mrs. Miller, where's Shadow?

She gave me a tight, tired smile and said,

Oh, he ran away from home a few days ago.

A 12-year-old dog had run away from home?

...