THE LAST THING MY WIFE AND I DID TOGETHER was make small talk in a taxi.
Earlier that Tuesday morning, she’d said, “Will, it’s fine. I’m taking a cab out there anyway.”
“To the airport?” I asked, but didn’t listen to the answer. Usually I take the train to work, but Orville isn’t allowed on transit unless she’s wearing her service dog vest, and I hadn’t been able to find it in the morning’s panic.
On the way to the airport, as the driver accelerated through a changing light, Orville whimpered beside me in the back seat.
“Can she hear something in the engine we can’t?” my wife asked from the front, through the hole in the glass.
“No,” I said. “She knows red means stop.”
“I thought dogs only saw in black and white.”
“That’s a common mistake.”