“Holy shit!” I blurt out, as my fare gasps in surprise. I swerve at 55 miles an hour, narrowly missing the dog that’s darted out into the middle of the bottom deck of the Fremont Bridge.
How the hell did it get out there? I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm my adrenaline, and quickly get onto the radio with my dispatcher, asking her to warn other drivers of the hazard.
My passenger’s headed to the corner of Killingsworth and Interstate, so it’s quick and easy to drop her off. I immediately get back on the bridge, speed across it, turn around, and head back toward the dog. As I hop out on the shoulder and trot after the black-and-white mutt, a cop car pulls up and follows behind me with its lights on. I feel exposed on foot with the wind whipping rain into my eyes, and am grateful for the shield. Goddamn, are those other cars going fast.
I walk toward the dog, cooing gently, but she trots away from me. She’s old, and absolutely terrified—her knees knock and she pisses herself as she runs. I break into a jog, catch up, and snag her collar. The cop pulls up and opens his door, and she immediately leaps in.
As I jog back to my car, I’m suddenly filled with hate and despair as I realize that the only way she could’ve gotten up there was if some asshole left her.