*Fast Dogs* Part II

My son was a mucous mess when he crawled upstairs to inform me the long-legged, beagle-howling, slut puppy sister hounds had run away. Again. I drew him onto my lap and used my shirt sleeve to dab at the snot beneath his nose.
            "They'll come back, honey," I said into his damp curls. "They always do."
            "I hope so, Mommy. 'Cause I don't want 'em to get smooshed by a car and have to be scraped off the street with a splatula."
            I cupped his chin and rotated his face. "What in the world are you talking about?"         

            "That's what Daddy said would happen someday."
            "Did he really? Well, why don't you pray right now the dogs will come home by supper?"
            My little guy bowed his head and clenched his hands together.

            "Dear God," he said.
            I peeked through my lashes. His eyes were squinched shut and his little boy forehead was lined with effort. I felt like a bike tire pump was attached to my heart, swelling it with little gusts of honeysuckle-scented air.
            "Please bring Daisy and Little Paint home sooner than now. And please don't let them get squished by a car. I think if I had to look at their blood and guts on the road where they got killed, it'd make me barf every time until the rain washed it away."
            I bit my lip.
            "We love them so much, God. They're so soft and nice. They let me lay on them like a couch. Please bring 'em home soon. Please? Thank you. Hey-men."

            "That was quite a prayer, sweetie," I said. "I bet the dogs are on their way home right now. Let's go down and see."
             In the foyer we opened the front door. No dogs. On the back porch we whistled and promised treats. Nothing.
            That night, I peeked out at the porches one more time before I went to bed. Nada. They weren't there in the morning either.

At lunch I spoke into my yogurt cup. “They’ve never been gone longer than a few hours. Maybe they’re not coming back this time.”

            I glanced up at the ceiling. And waited. To see if my heart would feel happy or sad.

            When our middle child came home from school that afternoon, she flung her jean jacket to one side of the foyer and her backpack to the other.

            "Are the dogs back? Did anyone call?”
            As I bent to pick up her scatterings, I told her no and no. She phoned the animal shelter and asked if they'd found a tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged girl dog and a white and tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged girl dog. Tears streaked her face as she nestled the phone back in its base.

            When she phoned the shelter the next day, the guy at the pound said, "Look, miss. Don't call us anymore. We'll call you. If we find them."
            Middle Child sprang up from the settee, her pointer finger in the air.

            “The mailman,” she said as she darted out the front door.

            Not a bad thought. Our mail carrier loved the dogs. Brought them Milk Bones every day. Called Daisy and Little Paint his girlfriends.

            “He promised he'd keep an eye out for them,” Middle Child said when she returned.
            At supper, the kids prayed for the dogs to come home. At bedtime, they beseeched God yet again.

The next day, the kids created fliers and posted them on every telephone pole within a mile of our house. They organized a search party with neighborhood kids.
            "I'll give whoever finds them, two dollars," Middle Child said. "One for each dog."

On the fifth day, all three kids cornered me. "Do something, Mommy!”
            "Like what?"
            They crowded into my personal space bubble, eyes huge and shiny, hands flailing.     

            "Like . . . something!"
            I phoned the newspaper and placed a missing dogs ad in the Saturday and Sunday papers.

            “No charge,” the lady said. “And don't worry. This’ll work. I got my cat back the day I ran an ad.”
            She was wrong. No one called. Days number six and seven came and went.
            "Do you think they'll ever come back?" I asked my husband as I pasted my toothbrush that night.
            He shrugged. "I seriously doubt it. They've never been gone this long," he said. "As fast as they run, they're probably in another state by now.  And if that's the case, I don't know if they can find their way back."
            I sipped water and swished and spat. Then sighed. "You're probably right. No one's called from the paper. I bet they lost their collars. Or their i.d. tags fell off."

The next day I phoned the vet and cancelled the dogs' upcoming check-up. When the gal asked why, I confessed the dogs had skipped town.
            "Daisy and Little Paint? No way!" the clinic receptionist said. "Bring us a flier and we'll hang it up on our bulletin board. We’ll get your doggy daughters back."
            My husband grumbled when I handed him a sign to deliver to the vet's office.

            "You know I don't want them back, don't you?”

            I nodded. I knew.

*Fast Dogs*

 (Part I)

When our long-legged, beagle-howling, slut puppy sister hounds run away, my husband always says a prayer. "I pray they never come back."
            I'm telling you what, they were so cute when we got them at the Manteo Island Animal Shelter thirteen years ago. I loved the way their silky ears were bigger than their heads. I stuck my nose in their mouths to sniff their milky baby breath. Thing is, puppies are like kids. They almost always outgrow their initial cuteness.
            No one at the shelter knew the pups' birth date so I decided it would be April Fool's Day. It seems I was waxing prophetic. Only question was, who was the fool? Us or the dogs?
            It was Friday of our vacation week and it was raining to beat all. At the beach. It'd poured more days than not that week. We'd done all the indoor things that could be done—the lame mall, the Rugrats Movie, the sea shell shops.
            We weren't in the market for a pet right then. In fact, we were on the tail end of the mourning period for our seven year-old pure-bred Beagle. Lacy June Bug Lulu Bell, daughter of Happy Time Barbie and Happy Time Ken, had succombed to an overdose of feminine protection products. Man, was the house quiet without her strident hunting howl. Boy, did I miss the way she'd sneak one paw, then another, then all of her, into my lap while I was watching ER.
            The plan had been to spend the rainy morning at the animal shelter, petting puppies and kittens. An hour after arriving though, I was writing a check and signing a paper. Swearing we'd be awesome animal owners when we returned to West Virginia. The shelter staff even phoned our vet back home, Dr. Doom. He testified that we were excellent pet owners and promised the pups would get shot and spayed at the appropriate times.

The invisible fence that worked most of the time for Lacy worked none of the time for Daisy and Little Paint. That's what I named them. Actually, that's what I renamed them. I refused to step out on our back porch and yell, "Here, Sea Shell. Here, Suntan Lotion.” Those were the girls' names for the pups.
            "Nuh-unh," I said. "This one'll be Daisy, 'cause she's white and yellow. That one'll be Little Paint, 'cause it looks like someone dipped her tail in a bucket of black paint."
            At first it was like a game, them running over the buried shock wire. When they were real small, they'd let out a pitiful yelp as the black box with shiny spikes punished their tender throats. Pretty soon though, they seemed to figure out the pain was lessened, or shortened at least, with speed. They'd fold their long, young legs under their deep ribcages and explode. Zero to fifteen miles per hour, just like that.
            My husband fixed them. He and his dad built a 5' x 40' dog run on one side of our property. Attached it to the neighbors' chain link fence. For a week or two, the girl pups seem to have been divested of their joie de vivre. Whenever my daughters called me outside to push them on the swings, the dogs'd stare at me through the fence with their big, Milk Dud-looking eyes. I wasn't a dog whisperer, but I was pretty sure I knew what they were thinking. Just like Cindy Lou Who in Dr. Suess's, The Grinch, they were begging to know one thing—why?
            Wasn't long before Daisy and Little Paint fixed us. They started climbing over, digging under, or chewing through their dog run. If they were in the kitchen and the back door was ajar, they knew it and carpe diemed. If there was nothing but a toddler between them and a screen door, the child was sacrificed for the greater good—the wild blue yonder.

            Scrapes, contusions and high-pitched wails of "No, doggies! No!" were ignored. Sometimes the dogs'd stop smack dab in the middle of the street and glance back at us. Daring us to try to catch them. Their blue-black, rick rack gums flapped. Their tongues hung to one side like strips of warm, strawberry taffy. Their eyes seemed to smile. Seemed to say, "Looky! Looky! Look at me! I'm a doggy that's now free!"

The same scene stuttered the same way, over and over. Never changing. Once a week for months it seemed. Then once a month for years. Wore me out. Wore me down.
            I'd have an hour or two before the phone rang. "Is this Daisy and Little Paint's mom?" 

            I perceived a serrated tone in every caller's voice. I pictured one hand on   his or her hip, the pointer finger on their other hand wagging. 

            "I have your dogs. Can you come and get them please? Like, right now 'cause I'm fixin’ to go to the mall any minute. And another thing, you shouldn't . . .” Fuss. Fuss. Fuss.
            I never defended myself. Never blamed my kids or the dogs. I'd just drive down the hill, or one neighborhood over, and say, "Thank you so much! I was very worried. I've been driving around for an hour.” Even if I wasn't. Even if I hadn't been. Even if I'd been praying that prayer of my husband's.

Fast Dogs--Part I

When our long-legged, beagle-howling, slut puppy, sister hounds run away, my husband always says a prayer.  "I pray they never come back."

I'm telling you what, they were so cute when we got 'em at the Manteo Island Animal Shelter thirteen years ago. I loved the way their silky ears were bigger than their heads.  I stuck my nose in their mouths to sniff their milky baby breath.  Thing is, puppies are like kids.  They almost always outgrow their initial adorableness.

No one at the shelter knew the pups' birthday so I decided it would be April Fool's Day.  It seems I was waxing prophetic.  Only question was, who was the fool?  Us, or the dogs?


It was Friday of our vacation week and it was raining to beat all.  At the beach.  It'd poured more days than not that week.  We'd done all the indoor things that could be done--the lame mall, the Rugrats Movie, the sea shell shops.

We weren't in the market for a pet right then.  In fact, we were on the tail end of the mourning period for our 7 year-old pure-bred Beagle.  Lacy June Bug Lulu Bell, daughter of Happy Time Barbie and Happy Time Ken, had succombed to an overdose of feminine protection products.  Man, was the house quiet without her strident hunting howl.  Boy, did I miss the way she'd sneak one paw, then another, then all of her, into my lap while I was watching ER.

The plan had been to spend the rainy morning at the animal shelter, petting puppies and kittens.  An hour later, I was writing a check and signing a paper.  Swearing we'd be awesome animal owners when we returned to West Virginia.  The shelter staff even phoned our vet back home, Dr. Doom.  He testified that we were excellent pet owners and promised the pups would get shot and spayed at the appropriate times.


The invisible fence that worked most of the time for Lacy worked none of the time for Daisy and Little Paint.  That's what I named 'em.  Actually, that's what I renamed them.  I refused to step out on our back porch and yell, "Here, Sea Shell.  Here, Suntan Lotion."  Those were the girls' names for the pups.

"Nuh-unh," I said.  "This one'll be Daisy, 'cause she's white and yellow.  That one'll be Little Paint, 'cause it looks like someone dipped her tail in a bucket of black paint."

At first it was like a game, them running over the buried shock wire.  When they were real small, they'd let out a pitiful yelp as the black box punished their throats.  Pretty soon though, they seemed to figure out that the pain was lessened, or shortened at least, with speed.  They'd fold their long, young legs under their deep ribcages and explode.  Zero to 15 m.p.h., just like that.

My husband fixed them.  He and his dad built a 5'x40' dog run on one side of our property.  Attached it to the neighbors' chain link fence.  For a week or two, the girl pups seem to have been divested of their joie de vivre.  Whenever my daughters called me outside to push them on the swings, the dogs'd stare at me through the fence with their big, Milk Dud-lookin' eyes.  I wasn't a dog whisperer, but I was pretty sure I knew what they were thinking.  Just like Cindy Lou Who in Dr. Suess's, The Grinch,  they were begging to know one thing.  "Why?"

Wasn't long before Daisy and Little Paint fixed us.  They started climbing over, digging under, or chewing through their dog run.  If they were in the kitchen and the back door was ajar, they knew it and carpe diemed.  If there was nothing but a toddler between them and a screen door, the child was sacrificed for the greater good--freedom.

Scrapes, contusions and high-pitched wails of, "No, doggies!  No!" were ignored.  Sometimes the dogs'd stop smack dab in the middle of the street and look back at us. Daring us to try to catch 'em.  Their blue-black, rick rack gums flapped.  Their tongues hung to one side like strips of warm, strawberry taffy.  Their eyes seemed to smile.  Seemed to say, "Looky!  Looky!  Look at me!  I'm a doggy that's now free!"


The same scene stuttered the same way, over and over.  Never changing.  Once a week for months it seemed.  Then once a month for years.  Wore me out.  Wore me down. 

I'd have an hour or two before the phone rang.  "Is this Daisy and Little Paint's mom?"  I perceived a serrated tone in every caller's voice.  I pictured one hand on their hip, the pointer finger on their other hand wagging.  "I have your dogs.  Can you come and get them please?  Like, right now 'cause I'm leaving for the mall any minute.  And another thing, you shouldn't . . ."  Fuss.  Fuss.  Fuss.

I never defended myself.  Never blamed my kids or the dogs.  I'd just drive down the hill, or one neighborhood over, and say, "Thank you so much! I was very worried.  I've been driving around for an hour."  Even if I wasn't.  Even if I hadn't been.  Even if I'd been praying that prayer of my husband's.