9780008390662

not moving
I know that hand like the back of my own paw.
“No!” Ruby screams. “Uncle Ivan!”
I check the crowd. No sign of Julia or George. Nothing. No Maya, either, or
other keepers I recognize. Just a few employees, several rescue workers, and
two or three dazed-looking visitors.
“Is he alive?” a firefighter asks.
“Hand—whatever it’s called—isn’t moving,” says another.
Weaving my way through the tangle of legs, I climb up the rubble pile, sniff a
bit, and bark my loudest Yes, he’s alive, get your rears in gear bark.
Just like those overachieving rescue dogs in the Man’s Best Friend show.
I listen for a sound from Ivan, a grunt, a cry for help. Nothing.
Still, he smells alive.
At least I think he does. And that’s good enough for me.