After twenty-three years operating our elevator without mishap, our dog Ernie broke away from my grasp, poking his muzzle through the scissor gate at the worst possible moment. I hit the stop button. The car was three feet down from the middle floor landing. Ernie’s head and neck were squeezed between the gate and a concrete wall.

He cried, lost his water, strained to pull himself out. The gate was more robust than it needed to be. It took four tries to jerk it out of the track.

Ernie came away from the ordeal with a scuff on his neck. I pulled muscles in my back, neck, and hips during a last-ditch, adrenaline-fueled assault on the apparatus.

We were traumatized. Ernie trembled all night, going back and forth between us in the bed. I had to take him out at 3:30 this morning, something I haven’t had to do for two months.

Our friend and elevator mechanic Mike Zeller will install an accordion-style barrier. Until then, Ernie rides in my lap. Both my hands will be around his chest.

It’s Sunday. Linda’s at church, thanking God for a narrow escape.