(They ran away on my first day home from the hospital. I was alone. With a two day old infant in my arms and ice packs in my hospital underwear. A kind neighbor tied them together with rope and dragged them to my house. I almost didn't answer the door.)
At this point we are all comfortable with our roles in the "Operation Labrador Retriever Retrieval."
Big JAR's role is to be at work, blissfully unaware of the situation. The dogs wouldn't dream of such flagrant disrespect on his watch. They only run away when I'm on duty. For a teacher on the school district's behavior team, I am an embarrassingly ineffectual dog trainer. I like to wave my arms around and shriek while they jump all over me. They clearly missed the memo stating my authority.
(Another humiliating parenthetical aside--We had a Jack Russell terrier when I was growing up. One day he walked over to me, sniffed, lifted his leg and peed on my ankle. What the hell is that about? Do dogs see me as some sort of mammalian post to mark? A walking, shrieking tree trunk in which to desecrate? I choose not to think about this anymore.)
Baby JAR's role is to run up and down the hallway, waving his hands, yelling, "muh, muh, muh!" (roughly translates to "Marley and Mabel are loose, oh my!). His second task is to find his coat and drape it around his neck like a fleece superhero cape. He gets the concept of wearing a coat, he's just not a detail guy yet.
My job is to curse like a sailor. Then I remember that I am now a mother so I clap my hand over my mouth and say something insincere like, "Oh it's okay. Mommy just feels frustrated because the doggie-woggies ran away again. Uh-oh!" I throw that toddling superhero on my hip, go out to the driveway, and bellow for the dogs. They never come when I bellow. Another important component of my role is the uniform. The dogs never run away when I am wearing a bra or real pants. I am typically decked out in my sister's ex-boyfriend's old sweatpants and a saggy tank top--my necklines all gap, gape, and hang in an unattractive manner because I am constantly yanking my tired boobs out through the top.
So I throw a sweatshirt over this fine ensemble and hit the road. I open the car windows and we roll through the town at 10 mph, calling the dogs, "Marley, Mabel, Muh-Muh!" If I see an unsuspecting pedestrian, I like to roll to a creepy stop and ask them if they've seen my moronic dogs. I'm beginning to worry about the impression I am giving the middle school students waiting at their bus stop. "Have you seen my dogs? Do you like candy? Come into my van, little one... [insert creepy cackle]." (Of course I'm kidding. I wouldn't dream of driving a van.)
Eventually I find my damn dogs. They are usually running side by side in the middle of the road, tongues lolling, ears blown straight back, covered in river water, mud and God knows what else. The ungrateful beasts get thrown in the trunk (don't worry, it's a hatchback) and we head home.
They are lucky I am morally opposed to animal abuse. (And I love the hairy imbeciles.)
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| I have no actual photographs of their escapes because I am always too angry to think of commemorating the event. But if you look at this picture and imagine asphalt instead of grass, take away the ball, and add a chocolate lab, it's just about perfect. |
