“Hang on,” I hiss at my tiny Yorkie who’s frantically scraping the patio door as if her paws penetrate glass. “Sorry, not you. Goldie,” I apologize into my cell phone. “How’s Thursday?” Goldie cocks her heard, thinking I’m talking to her. “One sec,” I whisper, leaning down to pat her silky forehead, just below her mini pink hair bow. She whines like a balloon leaking air. I try to stall since I can’t clip on her tangled leash while holding the damn cell phone—but then I succumb, sliding the door open with one hand.

Not watching the toy-sized dog with a teddy-bear nose rushing off-leash to relieve herself. Not watching her scratching grass in each direction, sniffing, checking her scent. Not watching a shadow inching toward her. Not listening to a rhythmic flapping sound overhead.

Goldie searches my face for signals, a nod or a shout, but I’m oblivious, fully focused on the phone call and the twisted leash.

WHOOSH!

Hooked talons grip Goldie: Shrieking, she tries to shake off her predator, who squeezes tighter with each movement. Every cell in my body jolts awake: I’m screaming-gasping-crying, “Goldie!!” My jumbled mind’s racing: Shelter puppy —cuddle bug— kissy kissy —Halloween as hot dog— ballerina tutu outfit—catching treats midair. Howling, “Nooooooo! Let-her-fucking-go! Let-her-go, let-her-go, let-her-go!”

Fury flings the tangled leash at the horrid-kidnapping-hawk; the leash’s metal clip smashes the barbaric-bloodthirsty-bird’s torso. Then Rage hurls the phone, which wallops the savage-diabolical-bird’s beak who releases a shocked screech — and my sweet baby girl.

I’m moaning-wailing-sputtering, “Goldie!” as the cell phone shatters, the leash hangs from a tree branch, and I stretch out my sweaty hands for Goldie, praying for mercy. Paws scrambling midair, she falls from the sky like manna from heaven to feed my starving soul.