The T On the Loose

You know how you love Fridays? That's right--I know you love Fridays. How? I spy on you. But I too am a fan of Fridays which made today a day to love. The morning moved along swimmingly, like most Fridays do. I planned an evening of taking my son to his chosen social destination, enjoying a dinner that I did not have to make or clean up after, and then returning home to a glass of wine and a chick-flick my husband wouldn't be caught within 10 feet of (Pride and Prejudice). And then, the day turned. Our beagle Teddy decided to celebrate this particular Friday (he also loves them) by exercising his need for space.

Around noon, T Bear and my Sheltie Bailey were out for their mid-day constitutional. After woofing down a 15-minute lunch, I went to let them back in. Enter: one Sheltie. Sans Beagle. I stuck my head out and looked around but did not see any four-legged creatures in the 50 lb range. I thought maybe my husband had let him in unbeknownst to me so I asked him: Where's Teddy? I knew the answer wouldn't be good when all I got was a blank stare from the man whose very life revolves around this dog who is--in return--co-dependent on him.

Where was the T? Out John ran to check the gate that was always supposed to be closed and locked. It mocked him by creaking open in the wind, eerie-sounding, like a ghost town deserted before the bad guys step onto the road. A gate most decidedly not closed and not locked. The T was on the loose.

Into action we moved. John grabbed a leash, I grabbed my keys. If you know anything about Beagles, you know that one on the loose can easily be guided quite far, quite fast by his "I gotta follow that smell!" nose. John began walking and I cruised the 'hood. Luckily it didn't take long to locate our wild beast: Poor thing had been in the wild where he never knew where his next meal might come from so he was foraging for food in a neighbor's trash, picking up a small bag of food cartons, vegetable cans and last night's leftovers and tossing it into the air in the hopes that landing on the ground would bust open the goodies. This is, after all, the tried and true hunting fashion of wild dogs for hundreds of years.

I parked, stepped out and called to Teddy. Up popped his head and he gazed at me, wondering if it could really be me. I called again and he realized it was me and he tore off toward me, with beagle ears flapping in the breeze and his back legs sort of swinging to the side like a NASCAR race car that's a little loose in the corners. I swooped our little wanderer into my back seat and cruised back to my worried hubby who was scouring the houses in the direction he'd gone. "I've got him!" I bellowed, once I got close enough. I stopped and John took the T out to let him walk home with him on the leash. Clearly the dog had a need to stretch his legs. And while I headed back to the house, I watched in my rear view mirror to see Teddy spending more time dancing around and jumping on John than he did just casually walking. And no wonder--there's no couches or wet dog food or tempur-pedic mattresses in the wild, wild world. And he'd been out in that dismal land for...for...minutes! He was thrilled to be back. We were thrilled to have him.

Our little wanderer:



Hard to tell who loves who more: