Lost Snorkel

By

Harold Anderson

                I had searched the same areas of the house three times, and was now holding my cell phone to my ear as I  plundered in the laundry hamper to find the sweat-soaked jeans I had changed from after spending the morning in the garden. My wife, Paula, answered on the third ring.

                “We have a problem,” I told her, in my best don’t-panic-and-remain-calm telephone voice. “Now, it is not an emergency,” I told her. “Yes, it really is,” I corrected. “I can’t find Marvel and I have lost my wallet. Wait, I just found my wallet in the bottom of the laundry hamper.  It must have fallen from the pocket of the jeans I was wearing this morning.”

                “I don’t care about your wallet – you lose it every day, but what did you do with the dog?”

               

                Now, reader, let me interrupt myself here to give you the lay of the land: I live in Philadelphia, Mississippi on a small, shady lot in a suburb. I have always liked to garden, but my lot is not suitable.  When I retired, we bought a 2.7 acre lot just two miles from my house. My lot is on the edge of an old pasture that a local developer hoped to develop into a new subdivision. He hasn’t had much success.  There are only two houses in the area, and they were there long before his plans. The pasture – probably about 60 acres – is surrounded on three sides by woods, and on the fourth side by the city park. To access the pasture, one must travel about a quarter mile down a dirt road through a pine forest. The road bisects the pasture.  The front of my lot boarders the road, and the park fence is my back line.  I have a tool shed and large garden abutting the park.  The fence line is so overgrown walkers on the hiking trail just across my fence have no idea my garden is there. It is easily accessible, but isolated and I like it that way.

                My family dynamic is pertinent to this story, so I will explain briefly: My older daughter, Laura and her husband, Luke, and 13-year-old son, Max, live in Collinsville, about 20 miles away.  Luke is a tow-boat captain, so he works on the river for a month, and has two weeks off.  Laura teaches pre-school at a day-care center and Max rides a bus to and from school.

                My younger daughter, Heather, her husband, Shane, and 11-year-old son, Barrett, live across town from us.  Heather and Shane both work for the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians at the reservation a few miles outside of town. Their schedules are erratic, so Paula goes to their house early each morning helps get Barrett up and dressed and drives him to school, just a couple of blocks from our house, then brings their Schnauzer, “Marvel” (AKA “Snorkel” or “Mervy”) to our house to spend the day.

 Ol’  Snorks is a good dog, but is high energy and prone to restlessness, so we are constantly taking him outside, where he is tied to a long lead, and letting in him about five minutes later when he becomes bored.  His one goal in life is to catch the neighbor’s cat.  When he sees him, he will light out like the Roadrunner on speed, reach the end of his lead and turn a back-flip.  Poor dog.

I go to the garden nearly every morning after a late breakfast (It sure is nice, being retired), work  a couple of hours and come home in time to watch “Jeopardy!” at 11:00 o’clock.  I often take Marvel with me. He plays about the pasture as I do my garden work.  He always comes when I call him and jumps in my truck to go home: never a problem – until this week.

One morning, Laura called and said that Max appeared to have pink eye, and asked Paula to come and take him to the doctor.  She agreed. After getting Barrett to school, she delivered Marvel to the house and headed to Collinsville. I went to the garden to pick butterbeans, among other things.  Marvel jumped from the truck, peed on all the fence posts, then headed up the driveway toward the dirt road. Like a good dog, he looked back, asking permission.  I told him to go ahead, knowing he would not wonder from the pasture – at least, he never had.  At about a quarter-till-Jeopardy! I loaded up my produce and Marvel was waiting at the truck (Yes, I am sure he was.). He jumped in when I opened the door.

When I arrived home, he jumped from the truck and followed me into the house.  I undressed, put my sweaty clothes into the laundry hamper, showered, put on clean clothes, and we watched Jeopardy! together. (Yes, I am sure we did). He barked to go out (Yes, I KNOW he did). I fixed lunch while I listened to Rush Limbaugh rave about what a sorry bunch the Democrats are. After lunch, I dozed while Ol’ Rush ranted on, only getting up a few times for the let-the-dog-in-and-let-the-dog-out thing.  I am POSITIVE.

Toward the end of Rush’s program, when he does about 15 minutes of “obscene profit messages,” I awoke from my stupor to the sound of rain.  “Gee,” I thought, “That’s odd, I haven’t heard old Mervy bark to come in: he hates rain and doesn’t even want to be on the carport when it starts.  I’d better check on him.”  He wasn’t on the carport. His lead stretched onto the deck, which is built onto my shop, about 50 feet away.  I called, but got no answer, so I walked to the deck, up the steps and peered around the railing.  There lay the end of the lead – without a dog.

I sometimes lose track of whether Marvel is in or out, since he comes and goes so often (I am thinking about a “The Dog is in/The Dog is out” note board by the backdoor). It is not unusual for him to take a nap in a vacant room, so I went into the house and called.  No answer.  I searched the house.  No dog. “Oh, my gosh, I left him in the truck,” I thought.  I checked.  No dog.

I drove around the neighborhood, calling and whistling.  No joy.

 “I know I brought him home, and he went in and out, so he has to be here,” I reasoned. Then I began to second guess myself: “No, wait, that was yesterday.  Today, he walked up the driveway to the dirt road, and I am not sure he got back into the truck. Oh, no!  I left him at the garden.  I grabbed for my wallet on the end table where I always put it when I watch TV.  I wasn’t there.  I retrieved the jeans I had worn that morning from the laundry hamper, but it wasn’t in the pocket.  I ransacked the house, looking under sofa cushions, behind furniture, in the oven, refrigerator, microwave and dishwasher, behind furniture – literally, EVERYWHERE! “I’ve got to find the dog, I’ll worry about the wallet later,” I thought.  I drove back to the garden and called.  No answer.  I drove around the park.  I did not see him.  I drove to all the houses in the vicinity. He wasn’t there and no one had seen him.  “Oh, God,” I thought, as I pounded the steering wheel, “this is terrible.  I have lost my wallet and the dog.  Everyone in the family worships that dog. If I don’t find him, my name will be ‘Mudd.’ It just can’t get any worse than this.  Then I heard an ominous “ding, ding, ding” coming from my dash.  I looked at the instrument panel, and the little gas pump was illuminated.  You know the one: the one that means, “Hey, dummy, if you don’t fill up soon, I am going to leave you stranded!”  Since my truck gets about five miles per gallon, my reserve goes quickly!

I drove to the “Spaceway,” about a half-mile away, to fill up, reached for my wallet, which wasn’t there, and proceeded home, on fumes, and made the phone call mentioned above.

After explaining the situation to Paula, she asked, “Are you sure you left him at the garden?”

“At this point, I am not sure of anything.”

“Well, Max didn’t have pink-eye, the Doctor said it was just seasonal allergies, so I took him on to school.  I will come home and help you look for him.”

With wallet in hand, I drove to the Spaceway for gas.  There was only one pump open.  It would not take my credit card.  I went into the store to get the attendant to turn on the pump. Everyone in the long line was her friend, and she chatted with them all. When I got to the front of the line, she wanted to discuss the weather. “Hot enough for you?” She said.  “NO!” I brusquely replied.  “Pump number two won’t take my card.  Please turn it on!” “OK, she replied, I’ll get to it in a minute.”

I rushed to the pump, waited patiently for her to turn it on and for the dial to clear, pushed the “Regular” button, put the nozzle into my tank, pulled the lever and waited impatiently as the world’s slowest pump drizzled gas into my tank. Five minutes and three gallons later, I gave up, stood in line again and finally paid my bill.

I drove to the garden, hoping Marvel had made his way back there and begin to call.  No luck. Just as I was getting in the truck to make my rounds of the park and adjoining areas, my cell phone rang.  It was Paula. As soon as I answered, she said, “I am home, and I have Marvel.”

“Where did you find him?”

“In the neighbor’s front yard.  His lead was wrapped around her mailbox post and strung out across the street.  I guess he ran after the cat, broke his lead and decided to visit some of his dog friends around the block.”

We now have two “Dog in/Dog Out” note boards – one at the backdoor and one in my truck, and I now keep a five-gallon can of gas in the back of my truck at all time.