At approximately 9:45 last night I stretched my arms languidly above my head, formed my mouth into a sweet little ‘o’ and yawned like a man. I announced to Christian that I was beat and it was time to hit the proverbial hay, but I think it may have come out more like, “fuck off, I’m hittin’ it.”
As is our routine, I let Farmer out in the back yard and he lets her back in after she’s explored and peed and eaten some items that she finds out there. So I did that. I let her out. Then I read in bed for an hour, which means I totally lied to Christian, because I had implied I was going straight to sleep. Oh well, what’s one more lie in the whole tangled web of lies I tell him daily?
When he finally came to bed he did not happen to have Farmer in tow, and that’s when we looked at each other with big cartoon eyes and said in unison, “UH OH!” We’re cute like that.
Thus began the search for the dog, whom we both assumed would never escape again due to her elderly state. Really, I should give all the credit to Christian, because he got bundled up and looked for her in the car, on foot, and with flashlight in hand, while all I did was stare helplessly out the window. I may have whistled outside for her once her twice, so there’s also that. What I lacked in physical looking I made up for in intense staring, though, because I nearly bore a hole in the road where we usually find her when she escapes.
Yes, she’s fond of making breaks and she always can be found straight down the street a few houses. On the few occurrences that we couldn’t find her, she made her way home in approximately one hour.
My favorite part of when she escapes is that it even dawns on us that something nefarious or dangerous could have happened to her. She’s gone through her canine version of 9 lives many times over and gives mortality the canine version of the bird.
Still, after 2 hours of no Farmer, we were a bit worried, but decided she would make her way back when she was good and full of garbage from the cans that were blowing over up and down the streets. It was an escaped dog’s paradise, incidentally.
Yawn. There I went again. I made Christian go down stairs and I dozed off on the couch, with the front door slightly ajar. The thing about Farmer that you can always count on is that she will bark loudly at the door when she’s ready to come inside.
I need to guiltily admit to not sleeping too badly, whether for complete lack of a heart or absolute certainty in Farmer’s return, I’m not sure.
6:30 am and my phone rings. I am talking to a police officer, who is asking if I have lost my dog. She tells me Farmer was picked up trying to get into the gas station up the street, and that an officer will drop her off at our house.
I’m not quite awake enough to remember to bring my camera out to take a photo of Farmer in the back of a squad car, her exhausted face could almost be mistaken for remorse. The officer helped her gently out of the car, making note of her giant tumor on her leg, to which I mumbled something affirmative.
After I thanked him profusely, and led the prodigal dog inside, I nearly fell all over myself to tell Christian that Farmer had been arrested. How funny am I?
Anyway, the strangest part about the whole ordeal is that we have NO CLUE as to where Farmer was all night. My questions to her are met with blank stares, and it’s maddening. I can only conjure up images of her in smoky back dens, cheating at Poker, leading a rogue pack of wild dogs through the seedy underbelly of our suburb, pushing over whatever trash cans hadn’t already bit it. Christian mentioned that I should check for tattoos later, and we both guffawed heartily.
The truth is, I’m sort of proud of the old girl. She’s 13, completely forgot how to get home, and still managed to get back here after a night of presumed debauchery and mayhem. I hope I’m that naughty and feisty when I’m 91.