Grounded

Conner was a climber. Started with the picket fence her half-sister Esther used to scramble under and moved on to the treehouse only accessible by ladder, the 2x2 slats 18 inches apart. This is an impressive feat for a mid-sized mutt of undetermined origin.

It was eventually topped by the time she put all four paws on the smooth, club-shaped runner atop the doghouse my father built for them, somehow bounding a few feet to the twisted ends of the chain-link fence that delineated our property from the neighbors'. Over-developed forearms pulled Conner toward freedom she never needed to take advantage of, because Esther wasn't with her, and all Con did was pant. Sometimes she whined, because she didn't seem to understand this wasn't possible for all dogs to accomplish, these scrambling attempts up the sides of things.

This very loyalty made the next story funny instead of tragic. My mother hadn't seen Conner all day -- not an unusual occurrence for the three-story Victorian, with its Brooklyn-sized backyard providing some basic foliage for outdoor espionage. Our trip to the supermarket made the reason evident: she had left a second-story window open, and at some point Conner wandered out onto the gable roof, content to take in a view of the neighborhood as she awaited our return, her tongue wagging all the while.

Saturday, she couldn't climb up to her chair.

She was 17.

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