I lost the dog.
For those who don’t know me very well, I’ll provide you with a little background. I lose things. Usually unimportant things. A lot. No idea how it happens. Because—obviously—if I did, then I wouldn’t have the whole losing things problem, now would I?
Keys that I obviously had two seconds ago because I otherwise would not have been able to enter my house without breaking and entering? No clue what happened to them. Planning to wear tennis shoes and need to scrounge up two whole matching socks to wear inside them? Good luck with that. My phone that I know I can hear ringing somewhere in this house? It must have grown legs and walked away or developed a super power of invisibility. My matching black high heel that seems to have somehow disappeared between the planks of my hardwood floors? Seriously. WHY DOES MY ROOM KEEP EATING ONLY ONE SHOE? WHERE DOES IT GO?
It’s like an imaginary fairy godmother full of chaos and destruction flies thru my house and abracadabras things away. She’s probably watching me from above, laughing her ass off while I tear thru my house like a maniac on speed trying to find JUST ONE MORE SOCK WHO CARES IF IT MATCHES. Which, fine. There’s a reason why there’s a find your iPhone app…blah, blah, blah. These are just material things. I can deal with temporarily losing them. Except the socks. Those aren’t temporarily lost. They’re just gone. Poof.
It’s when the lost thing is sort-of-maybe-really-kind-of-important that I can’t deal. Like last week…I lost a our dog. Remember her? Yeah, she’s adorable. Stop yelling at me. It just happened.
I let that little escape ninja outside for a total of no more than five minutes while I was finishing up getting ready for work. Except when I grabbed the bag of treats and headed to the back door to let her in, she wasn’t waiting there slobbering the clear glass up with her cute puppy saliva. Still, I assumed she was probably engaging in one-on-one combat with a chunk of bark somewhere in our FENCED IN back yard…like she tends to do.
Not so much. I called and called and called. No answer from the puppy. I rang a bell. I called some more. I waved a flashlight around in broad daylight like it would somehow make her suddenly appear in its magic light beam. I’ll admit now that idea was pretty stupid. I just couldn’t fathom how she had managed to magician her way out of our FENCED IN backyard without being beamed up by extraterrestrials. And, regardless of whether aliens had actually been involved, I knew my sister was going to MAJORLY freak out and kill me.
I slumped back inside, slightly defeated, and—I swear—I heard her. Like when I lose my phone…it sounded like she was somewhere in this house. Except she wasn’t. Anywhere.
I’m not going to lie, I was close to tears at this point. My sister and I get along extremely well and all I could think about was how that was all about to change. She was now going to hate me for the rest of our lives. I was now going to be the horrible, irresponsible sister who had lost her dog. No more close sisterly bond. No more happy family. Poof.
Then I happened to glance up at the front door.
Guess who was waiting for me on the front porch? Guess who had slipped thru a small gap in the fence and apparently made her way into the front yard? Guess who was sitting happily with her tongue hanging out, with no care in the world? Guess who just trotted right in as I swung open the door AS IF I HADN’T BEEN SCREAMING HER NAME LIKE A LUNATIC FOR THE LAST TWENTY (SEEMED-LIKE-HOURS) MINUTES?
I about had a heart attack. I don’t think I’m cut out for this—this whole faux-motherhood-dog-owner-thing. And guess what? My sister is heading out of town for work soon, leaving me in charge of her precious little Maddie for an entire week. Seven. Whole. Days.
What the Hell is she thinking?
– lindsey archer