Dead Dogs and Englishmen by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

in mind …”
    I hurried back and planted a big, wet kiss on his right cheek. “Oh, Jackson, I just know you wouldn’t want to take advantage of me.”
    â€œEmily …”
    I was gone out the door, dancing through the crowd on Front Street, and over the Boardman River bridge with a huge “YES” bouncing in my head.

A morning swim in Willow Lake made me feel clean again. The dead woman, the dead dog, and then my ex at the pinnacle of yesterday left me in a funk. Dolly, on top of that, deepened my funk. The best thing for times like that was being alone in my lake, floating on my back, watching the high white clouds move slowly against a raw blue sky.
    Sorrow, paddling beside me, long stick in his mouth, made me laugh. He gave me light moments. He gave me a kind of spiritual freedom I got from no one else. Not from dead women and not from dead dogs. Not from a closed-mouth friend in trouble. And not from an arrogant ex-husband; no matter that he might be my road to financial stability—at least for a couple of months.
    I flipped over and swam awhile, for the exercise, then turned on my back again, sunshine beating against my face and outlining red veins on the inside of my eyelids. I moved my arms enough to keep me afloat, kicking my feet when necessary. Another part of living up north, I told myself as I wallowed in cold and warmth; exquisite freedom of mind and body. As good as sloughing off an old skin—these minutes of peace with my new world and with my dog. The aloneness that had plagued me for years—even when I was married, and certainly when I first moved up to this place—was a gift now that I knew the difference between being lonely and being by myself. One cried out for other people to make me feel alive. The other meant just being me—wearing what I pleased, eating what I pleased (maybe cereal for dinner) whenever I pleased, going to bed when I wanted to go to bed, planning my own day, thinking and thinking and thinking, and when I got tired of thinking going out to find company so I wouldn’t be alone.
    A cranky beaver, as irate as ever, slapped his tail on the far side of the lake, over by his growing, conical house. He didn’t need to worry—I wasn’t out to hurt even the least of the creatures. I’d stood up to Jackson. I was in imminent danger of being fairly solvent soon. I was going to be all right. I patted the water, then dripped shining drops from my long fingers on to my face—cool paths to my ears. I touched my tongue to my upper lip—water and my own salt.
    â€œEmily! Hey, Emily!”
    Dolly . There isn’t a groan deep enough for what I felt right then.
    She stood on the end of my dock waving me in. Sorrow, always the first to respond to company, headed back to shake a greeting as Dolly yelled and brushed water from her uniform.
    I swam in slowly, struggling out of my half-asleep place. I hoisted myself up to the dock, grabbed a towel, and buried my not-too-happy face in it. I took plenty of time to dry off, then turned to Dolly, who waited impatiently.
    â€œCalled you again. I don’t know why in hell you even have a telephone if you won’t answer it …”
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah.” I wrapped the towel around me, and whistled to Sorrow, who was headed back around the lake to give that beaver a last ‘woof’ or two.
    She followed me up the sandy path, through the bowing ferns, to the house. Then into the house and on to a seat at my kitchen island, hardware clanking, boots planted on the narrow rungs of the stool. She grabbed her hat off and ran a hand over all that new growth of hair.
    â€œGot a farmer who might know the dead woman. Thought you’d like to go out with me.”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYou doin’ a story or not?”
    â€œWell, I guess …”
    â€œThen let’s get going. The guy’s waiting for us. He said he’d talk to some of his migrant