The old woman clings to me, gasping for breath.

I'm not in much better shape than her.

I quit smoking last year, supplementing the nasty habit with nicotine-flavored vapor or rock-hard gum.

Hopefully, it's enough to stop the heart attack or cancer that's been barreling toward me most of my life.

But time will tell. Quitting smoking doesn't

undo the years of damage, nor does it magically put anyone in shape. I might have lost some weight,

but I'm still nobody's definition of fit. The old woman, stricken with panic and love for her

kidnapped dog, had run across the field despite her advanced years.

She looks like a gentle breeze will knock her over, but then, covered in sweat and panting,

I know I'm not looking any better.

She screamed something in my ear as her nails dig into my shirt, but I can't make it out.

Not with all the other shouts and barking and golfing the dog park.

Don't worry, ma'am.

I suck in a deep breath and hear her sharp nails.

My partner is on it, and help is on the way.

Partner, that's not the right word.

But I chose to put the woman's mind at ease.

Gus isn't my equal.

He's my responsibility.

And I let him rush off into a forest with my gun because I needed a minute to catch my breath.

Guilt and shame gang up on my conscience.

Before Gus left, I told him about my greatest failure

...