Lost and Found

All in all, it lasted only about an hour, but I swear in my heart it lasted much, much longer. I left Mojo on the deck, walled in (or so I thought) eliminating the possibility of escape. Lily was inside no more than 15 feet away. I ran off to hit some golf balls content that Mojo would be pleased to stay on the deck with a full bowl of water and lots of sunshine. Life is good, right? I returned to find the deck empty and then, to my horror, discovered he was not in the house either. Lily and I went to red alert (more frequently known as panic mode) as we frantically decided to scan the neighborhood and beach, she on foot, me in the car. And, here’s where the stress really ramps up. Is he safe? Has he been taken? Has he left the area? Will he walk into oncoming traffic? Is he suffering in this heat without water? Has an alligator gotten to him -- not an idle worry in these parts. Then the thoughts turn to: Will we ever see him again? He’s such a great dog. How can we lose him so quickly, just as he’s hitting his stride as a member of our family and as part of the larger community here. Can he just disappear into thin air?

After driving the neighborhoods and asking every living soul if they’ve seen a wayward black lab, I head back to the house certain he must be there. It has to be a mistake. There’s no logical explanation for his escape. Nothing but empty, quiet space. He is truly gone. I head to the Community Association which alerts the area security and the local police. I am aware that my mind is working much faster than my consciousness can keep up with it. I am reacting, not really thinking, at least not analytically.

Then the break comes. Lily picks up a phone message from a voice belonging to a young girl who asks that we pick up Mojo as quickly as possible. The problem is the call is from a cell phone and is so garbled we really can’t decipher the words to make out an address or phone number. Infuriating! So frustrating! As I head back to the Community Association for a look at the Directory, Lily calls me and thinks she has figured out the name and address of our rescuers. I call them and a young girl tells me her sister is working her way on foot toward our house. I don’t wait. I get in the car and head in their direction only to spot the rogue Mojo and his ever so young rescuer. She apologizes for allowing him to follow her dogs (an Irish setter and a golden retriever) and for allowing Mojo to roll in the mud. She has cleaned him up the best she can. I spend the next minute falling all over myself to assure her there’s nothing for her to apologize about; that we are very, very grateful for her efforts. I ask her for her name and in an instant forget it. Maybe we will see her again, maybe not. Mojo jumps into the car. I believe he looks guilty, but I might have been reading a bit too much into it.

And Mojo? He’s in the dog house. Big time.