Last Night in Dogland

Last night, I ran out the back door in a thunderstorm, in the dark, barefoot and in my pajamas, chasing my dog, Swirl, who took off through a mysteriously open back gate, and galloped into the street while I screamed his name and the neighbor next door watched from his kitchen. It was 12:30 a.m.

Before I shot out the door, I yelled for my husband. If Swirl, our retired Alaskan Husky sled dog, really took off, it would take both of us to find him. Maybe one person to drive and the other to look out. So, I screamed HOWARD as loud as I could and went after the dog.

When I called “Wait!” Swirl stopped and looked at me and then turned back around and kept jogging. He wasn’t running, which was good, because he can run pretty fast and certainly for a very long time. That he was jogging, even if it was into the middle of the street, was a blessing. I hustled down the driveway, splashed through the puddles made by the recent snow melt and saw him pause by our truck. He wagged his tail as if ready to go to the dog park but still looked iffy as if he could bolt any second and tear down the street.

He stood still enough that I could grab his collar and start the trek back to the house. He pranced, the way he does when excited to go somewhere and I tightened my grip. The rain was really coming down then and the fact that I was barefoot walking through just-melted snow hit me. I thought maybe I should cry at my own heroism.

But then, at the top of the driveway, next to the open gate, I saw my husband, my rescuer, the one who always comes when I’m in trouble. He was naked with the old green blanket the dog uses to lay on in the living room wrapped around his waist. He told me later, he didn’t want to stop on his way downstairs to put his robe on, but then realized when he hit the back door that he had no clothes on, so he grabbed the dog’s blanket and I marveled at this, how far he would have gone in the neighborhood looking for our dog while dressed in a green blanket.

Things did not get better. Swirl spent the next three hours pacing our bedroom. Clad in his Thunder Shirt and under the influence of 1.5 dog anxiety pills, he paced a circuit to the top of the stairs, back to the bathroom, and then to my side of the bed where he reared up his 75-pound self at least 500 times to put his two giant front paws on the bed, mouth full of teeth wide open in heavy pant. He’d jump, I’d push him off. No dog on the bed, not when he’s crazy out of his mind. Herc, the cat, watched from his perch on the dresser, sometimes padding his way across the bed to do crisis intervention. Going nose to nose with the big guy. It was all very furry and aggravating in the extreme.

The old man, exhausted by his blanket exploits, feigned being awake by appearing to sit up with me. But he was sleeping. We all knew it. I gave up on sleep, instead reflecting on my meaningless life, thinking I should get up right then and clear out the old blazers in my closet, and then deciding to rewrite the ending of a story about two women fighting over a purple shirt at Goodwill. It’s a way better ending but, wow, what a price to pay.