I steer my small Ford pickup to the side of the road and shut off the motor. I open the door and stand up. As I do, my border collie, Scooter, jumps down next to me, panting with tail wagging, ready to run. I bend down to remove the leash, and she is off. At first, she trots, her nose down scanning for something only a dog would find of interest. Her run meanders in long, slow curves out and away from where I stand watching. I sit down again and close the door to the truck.
Hearing the door close, she stops momentarily and glances back at me. Suddenly, she takes off, her legs a blur through the sparse grasses, herding imaginary quarry; running and cutting to first one side and then another.
And as if responding to an unspoken command, she turns towards the truck, running full speed, back to me. I expect her to stop, but she keeps up her all-out run, launching herself at the driver’s side window, which, lucky for both of us, is open. I lean back at the last second as she lands awkwardly in the seat next to me.
She always gets shotgun, but not usually with as much flair.
Memory is the Key 