Did I do the right thing?

About once a month I get together with a half dozen of my buddies for stimulating game of poker, spirited conversation, and beer drinking. I was on the way to the game last night and as I drove around a hairpin turn that led to a bridge crossing the lake I was startled to see a rather larger coyote in the middle of the road with something substantial in his mouth.

I slammed the brakes on and my headlights illuminated the beast perfectly. I could now see that the object in his mouth, quite limp, was a miniature daschund. The coyote's muscles tensed and I could tell he was weighing his options in those millisceconds as to which direction he should take flight and as to whether or not he should drop his recently acquired meal.

He quickly came to the determination that since the rumbling machine with the powerful lights was no longer bearing down upon him he could make his exit in a more dignified fashion and he lazily loped off the road, daschund still in tow, ducked under a split rail fence, and vanished silently into the thick weeds and darkness beyond.

I was a bit shaken by the incident; the whole thing had happened in less than 10 seconds, and I found myself still sitting on the road, staring at the spot where the coyote had disappeared when a honking noise behind me alerted me to the presence of an angry driver whose progress I was impeding.

I waved a little gesture out the side window indicating my apolgies and continued on to the poker game.

I walked into the house and noticed I was last as usual. All the guys were sitting around the kitchen, drinking beers and waiting for my arrival. The usual salutations were showered upon me: "Hey, Gus, what's happening?" "Howdy, Gus!" "Hey, old- timer, it's 'bout time you dragged your sorry old bones out of bed."

I acknowledged them all in turn while at the same time observing Jim, a normally jocular fellow who was now sitting at the table with a rather morose look on his face. He was idly shuffling the cards but his mind was obviously a thousand miles away.

I turned to Burt and motioning with my thumb in Jim's direction, I said, "What's up with Jim?"

"His dog ran away earlier tonight, Gus. He looked all over the neighborhood, he and his wife. They yelled and yelled but the dog never showed. He's hoping it will be back tonight. His wife is going to call here if the dog shows."

I kind of knew the answer before I asked the question, but I felt it was necessary to do so.

"What kind of dog was it, Burt?"

"One of those ankle biters. A miniture daschund is what he called it."

I felt sick. There was a queasiness in the pit of my stomach and I had to rest my hand on the counter to maintain my balance from the light-headedness I was now experiencing. A tear began to form at the corner of my eye and I quickly started coughing so I could turn around and wipe the tear away without my buddies seeing my momentary display of weakness.

Now composed I said to the group, "Let's play some poker!"

We all headed into the dining room and sat around the table. I looked at Jim and said, "Sorry to hear about your dog, man. I'm sure he'll show up."

Jim smiled weakly and said, "Thanks, Gus. I hope you're right."

I then picked up the deck and announced, "First Jack deals" and began firing the cards out in a quick clockwise motion.


Now, here's my question: Did I handle this situation properly? Should I have told my friend his daschund was now in a coyote's stomach?

In hindsight I wish I would have told him because now the poor guy is going to spend months, maybe years, staring out the window, waiting for the return of his beloved daschund.

And it's never going to happen.