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Laurie since the Yogi thing began. We usually try to speak every night, but she’s at a police convention in Chicago, and I’ve been pretty busy, so we’ve traded phone messages. I’m not the most sociable guy in the world, and most of the time when I call people I hope their machine answers. This is not the case with Laurie.
    The phone is ringing as I walk in after returning from court, and when I pick up I hear her voice. It’s amazing how comforting, how welcoming, how knowing one voice can be. Think Patsy Cline with a New Jersey accent.
    I admit it. I may be a little over the top about Laurie.
    “Congratulations,” she says. “I just missed a panel on the use of Taser guns watching you on television.”
    “I’m sure it was stunning,” I say.
    “You were great. I was proud of you.”
    “I meant the Taser gun panel must have been stunning. It was a Taser gun joke.”
    “Now I’m a little less proud. What are you going to do with Yogi?” she asks.
    “Find him a good home. He can stay here until I do, although I haven’t quite discussed it with Tara yet.”
    “You think she’ll mind?”
    “I think I’ll have to give her an entire box of biscuits as a payoff, but she’ll be okay with it.”
    “When do you get him?” she asks.
    “I’m supposed to be back at the shelter at three o’clock.”
    “Seriously, Andy, I thought what you did was great.”
    I shrug off the compliment, and we talk about when we are going to see each other. She has two weeks vacation owed to her, and she’s coming in at the end of the month. It’ll mean showering more, but it’s a small price to pay.
    After speaking to Laurie, I do a couple of radio interviews about our victory in court and then head to the shelter to secure my client’s freedom. There is a large media contingent staking out the place, and it takes me ten minutes to get inside.
    Fred is waiting for me, a big smile on his face. There aren’t too many happy stories in his job, and he’s obviously relishing this one. “I gave him a bath,” Fred says. “Wait till you see how great he looks.”
    We go back to the quarantine section, and he gives me the honor of taking Yogi out of the cage. Yogi does, in fact, look great, freshly scrubbed and wagging his tail at the prospect of imminent freedom.
    Yogi and I leave, having once again to go through the media throng to get to the car. I’ve said all I have to say, and Yogi doesn’t even bother barking a “no comment.” We both just want to get the hell out of here.
    When we get home I lead Yogi directly into the backyard. I then go into the house and bring Tara back there as well, feeling that somehow the meeting will go better outside. It goes amazingly well; Tara doesn’t seem to show any jealousy at all. My guess is, I’ll hear about it later when we’re alone, but right now she’s the gracious hostess.
    I grab a pair of leashes, planning to take them for a walk in Eastside Park, which is about five blocks from my house. We’re halfway down the block, walking at a leisurely pace, when I hear a voice.
    “Reggie!”
    Suddenly, instead of holding two leashes, I’m only holding one, Tara’s. Yogi has taken off like a track star exploding out of the blocks, surprising me and breaking out of my grip on his leash.
    I panic for a moment, fearful that he will run into the street and get hit by a car. I turn to see that he is still on the sidewalk, running in the other direction toward a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties. The woman is down on one knee, waiting for Yogi to arrive. She doesn’t have to wait long; for a middle aged dog, Yogi can really motor.
    Yogi takes off about five feet from her, flying and landing on her. She rolls back, laughing, with him on top of her. They roll and hug for about fifteen seconds; I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a happier human or dog.
    Tara and I walk back to them; Tara seems as surprised by this turn of events as I am. As we reach them, the woman is struggling