Last Monday around 4 in the afternoon I was standing in my kitchen when a thought entered my brain. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen the dog of yours, hasn’t it?” the thought said. Where could that rascal be? I playfully thought.
I bet he’s under the bed…..nope.
Maybe he’s under the couch….no.
After checking EVERYWHERE, I turned to the age of trick of obnoxiously loud opening of dog food containers while shouting “DINNER!” at the top of my lungs. For the entirety of my dog Norman’s life, he has never come when his name has been called. He has, however, always come after hearing the word “dinner.” Next dog I plan to name dinner. It’ll just make things easier in the long run. But I digress, as I was saying the dog is, officially, gone.
Call to husband…
“Norman is gone.” I say.
“What are you talking about? He’s just sleeping somewhere.” Says the hubby.
“He’s sleeping in heaven on a cloud, because he’s missing, and that means he’s dead.”
Our dog Norman is a grumpy, 12-year-old Boston Terrier, with more attitude than a grounded teenage girl, who’s on the rag. He’s bossy, has wicked halitosis, and ZERO natural instincts. Outside of the safety of a house I’d give him somewhere between 2 to 10 minutes to live. He doesn’t know about crossing streets, hunting for food, or that raccoons are not to be fucked with.
Basically he’s a total jerk, but he’s MY jerk and I’ve loved that smelly little smushy face for 12 years.
While my husband prepared to drive the streets and make missing posters I decided the first step was to call the Humane Society. Fighting the tears I was finally connected to the Lost and Found department.
After a seriously long, frankly unnecessary, list of questions the woman at the lost and found informed me that indeed Norman was there at the shelter.
I burst into tears and shouted “When he gets home I’m gonna KILL HIM!”
For the next two days Norman was a man of mystery. I wondered where he had been found? What he had seen? Did he save little Timmy who was trapped down a well? Did he fall in love with a hooker dog with a heart of gold? What did my dog do with the 6 hours of his life that I cannot account for?
Three days after Norman’s trip to the slammer Norman and I were walking out the door to go to the park. Our neighbor’s wife (who we haven’t seen all summer) was getting out of her car. She looked at me, looked at Norm and gasped “Oh I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you had a dog!”
Turns out she had found Norman by the garbage bins between our two houses. And seeing that he wasn’t wearing a collar she scooped him up, and whisked him away to the animal shelter.
So turns out Norman went… well…. nowhere. He got as far as the side of the house when his dream of freedom was taken away from him. No wonder he looks grumpy…..