Yesterday was just one of those days. I woke up late (ok, because David is out of town and so I STAYED UP LATE) and groggy, and just never quite got to the point where I was fit to accomplish the many things I was supposed to accomplish (i.e. finishing Christmas shopping [which would involve actually deciding what to GET people], cleaning house, wrapping presents, coming up with a unique and clever Christmas letter [or even a mediocre and dull Christmas letter], putting out the rest of the Christmas decorations [I seem to be oddly content despite knowing full well that there's still a whole box of decor downstairs unopened - as though having finally gotten the tree up and decorated adequately is the apex of my decorating accomplishments this year- and I may be okay with that], wrapped up with making Christmas goodies, another task which seems to leave me strangely unmoved this year), a daunting and unreasonable (as well as unrealistic) task list.
And how much progress did I make? you ask. Perhaps you didn't ask OUT LOUD, but for the purpose of this intellectual argument I'm trying to make, let's say you did.
And the answer would be: NONE (
quelle surprise!)
And it's the dog's fault. Because he chose yesterday to RUN AWAY FROM HOME.
Apparently spending the weekend at the "Spa" (i.e. boarding at the vet's while we kicked up our heels at the company party downtown) was just a wee bit too confining for his taste, because he took advantage of my distraction at having the UPS man deliver 2 packages at my door and then decide that one of them wasn't mine but that there should indeed BE 2 packages and therefore the second package must still be in his truck. When I followed the Man in Brown, eager to claim the fruit of what little shopping I HAVE done, Gus must have taken the opportunity to slip through the slow-to-close screen door and do a little exploring and shopping of his own. Unbeknownst to me. Which is a bit hard to believe, I mean, Chubby black dog, white snow... you don't need a degree in rocket science, if you know what I'm saying. But then, I AM the person who put the pot lid in the flour cannister (about 3 posts back if you're new to this), so perhaps it isn't so very unlikely after all...
So after about 20 minutes of gloating over my boxes and various other little time-wasters, I decided some lunch would be in order, and grabbed my leftovers from the fridge and threw them in the microwave (ok, so I didn't ACTUALLY throw them. Work with me, here). And no hopeful black face appeared at my side, prepared to help me dispose of said leftovers in an efficient and dedicated manner. Odd. I checked his bed. His other bed. The couch. I opened the back door and called.
Nothing.
I have an inkling by this time that my day has taken a disturbing turn. I make the rounds again, this time adding the garage to my route, in case he followed me in when I put the garbage cans away (the garbage cans I felt so virtuous wheeling to the curb BEFORE the garbage truck got to my side of the street, and so amused by the guy across the street having to move his to MY side of the street because he was five minutes too late...and yes, this is much more enjoyable when it's your neighbor that it happens to and not yourself, thankyouverymuch).
No Gus.
At this point you may use your imagination to imagine me driving up and down every doggone (yes, I used that on purpose) street in our subdivision. Be sure to imagine my makeup being on and my hair being curled... they weren't, but I'd rather you pictured it anyway :) Imagine this process for about 40 minutes, and then me driving into my driveway, going inside to check the house phone to see if there are any messages (because the only info on the dog tag is our house phone and "Angus.") Of course, no one has found him, or if they have they aren't fessing up, so I quickly email my husband's blackberry with a pathetic, sympathy inducing email (which pretty much fails) and I'm off to hunt again, a slightly wider arc, and with significantly more mumbling under my breath. And because I'm going 10 miles an hour and craning my neck to see more completely, about every two minutes my car reminds me with a shrill and incessantly persistent beep that I have failed to fasten my safety restraining device. More mumbling under my breath (had it been more distinct I'm pretty sure it would have been at least PG-13 with vague occasional lurching near the "R" territory.)
Following another fruitless search, I return home to check for messages, and curl my hair and put on a scrap of make up, because all that mumbling and craning and getting beeped at has not improved my appearance (thank you for your valiant but doomed imagining effort on my behalf). On my way to the computer to check email, I decide to just check out the front door one more time JUST in case he's just been sitting on the porch waiting patiently for me to notice him for
the last 3 hours...
And lo and behold. Straight across the street from my door, there he sits. Kind of looking around, like, Hmmmmm, I thought it was ONE of these houses...
Of course I call, and he comes cheerfully racing and I forget all my mumbling and craning and beeping and I slobber all over him and get him drinks and treats and a kingly perch on the couch for the next hour or so. But by this time all momentum is gone. There will be no accomplishment. No wrapping, no shopping, no risking more beeping and mumbling and most definitely no craning...
After all, tomorrow IS another day, and if I buy stuff online in the meantime, the UPS man will bring it to me....
But not until I lock Gus in his room.
