Friday, November 20, 2009

It's Probably Abnormal . . .

. . . but I cherish my little Boston terrier, a birthday present two years ago, (that's her on the right, if you haven't guessed), perhaps beyond the point of reason. I'm sure that dog lovers will empathize. Those benighted souls who don't love dogs will think this is just so much foolishness. Well, they have my sympathies.

But be that as it may, herewith a tale of woe with a completely unexpected twist and happy ending. Last evening my niece, who works in a neighboring state, stayed over after a nice supper, wine, and great conversation. Her job requires her to come over here to Oklahoma every now and again, and it's our pleasure to have her over for supper and visiting and catching up on extended family.

Anyway, if ever you have lost your dog and couldn't find her, you know that terrible feeling. I experienced it again earlier this morning. I helped my niece load her car for the airport, and my wife came out to say her goodbyes. She admitted to seeing Prozac, the Boston terrier who's the subject of this post, scoot out of the house. Now I should interject here that this is not uncommon behavior for the dog, but the human involved in this case, Susan, said spouse, is under strict instructions to always have the dog on a leash because she will run away from her and not come back. Prozac listens to me, but with Susan . . . not so much, especially with the possibility of an outside adventure in the offing.

You can probably guess what's coming. We wave our goodbyes, Christine drives off, and . . . no Prozac. I go down the street calling, I go up the street calling. Susan follows me going up and down the street calling. Now, when this has happened before, Prozac always comes running when she hears us. Not this time. No dog shows up. At this point I'm getting really worried, imagining the worst: dog hit by a car on one of the nearby streets, dog stolen by some heartless person, or any other of a number of equally horrifying scenarios. So now I get in the car and decide to drive all around the neighborhood, but even as I do so, I'm in despair because I realize the odds of this search being successful are slim. I was right. I didn't find the dog on this drive. And I'm very glum, to say the least.

So I come in the house and am greeted with Susan's excited news: "Sweetie, you have to call Christine! She found Prozac in the trunk of her car!" Yes, you are reading that correctly. As she was packing up, Prozac simply leaped in and made herself comfortable for the trip. Christine reports she just wagged her tail when the truck lid opened, figuring no doubt that she had arrived at her destination.

Well, not quite. Prozac's back where she belongs now, and Christine is on her way once again, but the dear brought the dog all the way back to the house from the airport and had to rearrange her schedule to do it. I don't know if a timeless dog story was worth it, but somehow, maybe so . . . who could make this up?
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