The Beast and I had run a fare down to the Trenton train station and were taking a shortcut back to Jessica’s for a quick cup of coffee when the atmosphere crackled with thunder. A medium-size border collie raced to the curb, perilously close to the street. I braked hard, but the dog sat, apparently never intending to dash into traffic. He raised a paw and tipped his lovely head to one side, as if he wanted me to stop. A gray-haired gentleman stepped to the curb behind the dog. He held a folded newspaper over his head and smiled even though the skies had opened and the deluge had begun. I leaned across the massive bench seat, cranked down the window, and shouted, “Do you need a lift?” “Afraid I left my wallet at home,” he answered. I glanced from the man to his soaking-wet dog and back again. Dad would kill me if I got wet-dog smell inside the Beast. But he also had a firm policy about helping those in need. This man and his dog were definitely in need. “On the house,” I called out, gesturing for the pair to climb inside.
