Bridges

As I walked along the river, I wondered if I should cross the bridge up ahead. It looked much like many other bridges that I had crossed today. Venice is filled with bridges. Bridges and “streets” of water and couples taking pictures.

Venice. City of Love. Honeymoon destination.

Yeah. About that.

This was supposed to be our honeymoon, celebrating the love and new life of Mr. and Mrs. Chester Evans.

Chester. Change one letter, and what have you got? Cheater. And he was.

Fortunately, I found out before the “I Do’s.” Unfortunately, I didn’t find out before I blew my inheritance money from Great Aunt Elsie on the honeymoon. The Grand Venetian Honeymoon Experience, Your Perfect Destination to Begin Your Happily-Ever-After.

Paid in advance. Nonrefundable.

Cheater Chester or no, I was committed.

So here I was, in Venice, going solo.

Trying to decide whether or not to cross a bridge. Somehow that was symbolic.

I perched on a nearby stone wall to think through this moment full of portent. (Hey, I teach a Drama class at the college. I can’t help being dramatic!)

Bridges. Bridges cross things, connect things, join things. Bridges carry us over dark and turbulent waters. Or green and pestilent waters. Or rushing dangerous waters. Or troubled waters. Or, I suppose, peacefully reflective waters, like the water in this river.

Bridges collapse, leaving the people on either side isolated and unreachable. Then they are rebuilt, re-connecting, re-joining, re-reaching.

There’s a poem about a road not taken; is there one about a bridge not taken? Surely the bridge taken - or not taken - has at least the same deep meaning as the road taken - or not taken.

I should write that poem. After I decide to take - or not take - this bridge.

A woman approached, leading an adorable wee dog clad in a tiny red sweater. Right behind her followed a man leading a huge, sweater-less black monster of a dog. Ooh, I thought, decision-makers! Like a roll of the dice in Dungeons and Dragons, or Choose Your Own Adventure. I would follow their lead. Would they cross that bridge when they came to it?

Wee dog crossed. Black monster did not. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.

I rose from my stony perch and followed Red Sweater Dog. Midway across the bridge, I paused to stare into the water that gently and unceasingly slipped beneath the bridge. I could see my reflection, watery and wavering, floating below me.

Suddenly, a commotion on the bridge snapped me back to attention. Automatically checking my purse (you hear such stories of pickpockets, even in Venice) I turned to face the ruckus.

Red Sweater Dog’s lady was shrieking frantically, gesturing over the edge of the bridge.

“Cujo! Cujo jumped over the side! Someone help me!”

There, in the water below, Red Sweater Dog (Cujo? Really?) was paddling his tiny paws frantically, being rapidly swept away despite his desperate efforts.

I turned to run back to the path, determined to save the little dog. As I reached the path, I crashed into a large, unmovable body. As he caught me, the man shoved a leash into my hand.

“Here, hold Fluffy!” he shouted. “I’ll get the bitty dog!” He ran alongside the river, following the progress of Red Sweater - er - Cujo.

Looking down, I realized that I was clutching the leash of Monster Black Dog. Good Lord! He was enormous! More like a wolf than a dog. Petrified, as unable to move as a rat captive in the gaze of a cobra, I stared into his deep brown eyes, horrified as his jaws opened, revealing shiny white teeth…. and the largest, sloppiest tongue I have ever encountered, as he licked me from wrist to elbow in a giant doggy kiss.

“Fluffy! That’s no way to say hello! We’ve talked about this!” Tearing my eyes from the slobbering dog, I looked up at his human.

“It’s ok,” I laughed. “I like dogs.”

“He’s really just an oversized lap dog,” the man smiled. “Can you hold onto him for another minute? Let me give Itsy Bitsy here back to his mama.”

“Cujo,” I corrected.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Cujo,” I repeated, pointing at the soggy ragamuffin he held in one hand. “His name is Cujo.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

Looking at the half-drowned scrap of a dog, we both burst out laughing.

“Cujo!” he gasped, tears rolling down his face. “Good Lord!”

Still wiping his eyes, he turned to step onto the bridge. “Don’t go away,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Firmly planted on this side of the bridge now, I scratched Fluffy’s ears and watched his human return Cujo to his grateful owner. Maybe some bridges are not meant to be crossed.