Rex was gone. I don’t mean he had zipped through his secret burrow over to Millie’s back yard, and I don’t mean he was hiding under the bed. My dog was gone.I had noticed him being missing after our fight over what to watch on TV. He had wanted to watch a rerun of “Lassie,” and I wanted to watch a PBS special, “The History of the Paperclip.” Even though his brain is the size of a walnut, he is pretty good at punching buttons on the remote and finding a show that interests him.
He had been watching Lassie and I plopped down on the couch, commandeered the remote from him, and punched in the PBS station to watch what I thought would be a fascinating documentary-I had never given much thought to the history of paperclips, and here some crack research and film team had done all the work for me. I had laid my feet up on the coffee table, making sure not to knock off the odd dozen or so empty beer cans, and slouched down as the tantalizing intro into the world of paperclips played out on the TV.
Rex watched with indignation as I sat there and took away his “Lassie” rerun. Had his eyes been lasers, they would have burned holes through me, the shabby curtains, and the dirty bay window behind me. But his eyes were only standard-issue small black Dachshund eyes, so all he could muster was an intense glare at me.
“Rex, cool your jets. You’ve seen that rerun a hundred times. Timmy falls down the well, Lassie runs to the sheriff, and Timmy gets saved. THIS is the history of paperclips. I even think I’ll record it so I can watch it again-may miss some good parts if I have to get up and pee.”
Rex paid little heed to my logic. He hopped off the couch, walked toward the kitchen, growling, and stopped at the kitchen table. I knew what was coming next. Lifting his leg, the sound of a small stream of water merrily cascading down the lower table leg confirmed my suspicions. He had given me one last glare on his way out his doggie door to reinforce his unbridled hatred for me.
That had been two days ago. He had tunneled out the side yard fence and ripped out a few geraniums in the front yard as a last act of defiance. I had looked and looked and looked for him, everywhere. I had called all the neighbors, even the Knarlenscthenglers’, who don’t like Rex. He once had been playing with their little tortoise in their back yard, and oops, well, I apologized as best I could. Rex evidently had mistaken “Mr. Pokey” for a bone and buried him under their azalea bushes.
I had driven up and down the streets with the windows down, calling out his name and enticing him with Costco pizza and even an offer to buy him “The Complete Lassie Collection” DVD set, but he was not to be found. I called the SPCA and no one had turned him in, but they would call if he showed up there. In an act of desperation I even snuck into the Knarlenscthenglers’ back yard to look for a fresh mound of dirt under their azalea bushes. I felt really bad. Poor little guy, out there somewhere, drinking puddle water and scrounging for food.
The phone rang. It was the SPCA. Someone had found Rex and turned him in. The person on the line said he was in good shape, but cold, hungry, and tired.
My relief faded quickly. Skip out on me, huh? Have me spend two days and two nights driving around and calling out his name, huh? “Tell him I’ll be down to pick him up after I finish the Costco pizza and watch the last of the ‘Lassie’ rerun!”
