Catching A Break

About midday, Islay the Scottish terrier and I went out to get in the car to go to the office. About to put her on lead, I suddenly forgot I had left something on the front hall table, so I turned round, went back into the house, grabbed whatever it was, and went back down the steps....

...where there was no sign of the little black terrier.

This is not the first time in my life such an event has happened because of my own carelesness, and -it's true- I should have known better: A Scot can disappear quicker than you can imagine.

The first thing you do is a collection of stupid things - you check the house knowing full well the dog is not there. Next you wander around the outside of the house baying the dog's name, knowing full well that she's done a runner and is sniffing all sorts of new things, enjoying the sun, looking for birds, vermin, future pals, and a snack or three.

Next I got in the car and drove around with an alleged purpose, in spite of the fact that a small black creature darting about would probably not be trapsing down the bikeway/walkway adjacent to my property.

In the meantime, I was giving myself another in series of angry lectures and at the very same time a trying to will my heart down from my throat into its accustomed position. You know you are not succeeding when the position of your heart interferes with your voice which has suddently become high pitched and very strained.

Finally, I called the local gendarmes and was able to say that the dog had tags galore (she even has a microchip, but that wouldn't help much in these circumstances). The officer who took the call was understanding.

I drove around a bit more, came back to the house for as short period of ritual yelling, then decided to visit "Condo Land" just south of my house. I walked briskly down the path, keeping my braying to what I thought would meet the "good taste requirement" which these communities seem to relish, but again no luck. By now I was seriously vexed with me for my stupidity.

So the trudge back to the house was with a heavy heart, full of fear that some speeding car had taken out my little dog or that she had been captured by someone whom she could never love as much as she loves me (I think. No, I hope.)

About sixty yards from my house, I spied a small black creature sitting and looking at me with moderate interest. "Islay," I called with restrained enthusiasm.

She looked at me with an expression which said, "Bloody hell, now I suppose he'll make a speech, shake a finger, and there won't be any dinner tonight."

We walked together separately back to the front door, and into the house she went. And then I picked her up and gave her a big hug, the first of several, actually.

Some people believe that a dog is a living piece of furniture, something to decorate the place. Some believe that a dog is a member of the family and enjoys all Constitutional rights except the right to vote.

I have always been in the second camp and not always pleased about it, but the companionship of terriers over the years has always been a great solace against the sturm und drang outside my home. Tonight, Islay will lie down next to me with her derriere against my right leg. I shall turn out the light and will slide my hand so that it rests lightly next to the top of her head, and the feeling of gratitude for her safe return will be overwhelming.

No doubt we both caught a break today - lucky just begins to describe it.