The other day, when I stuck my head out the door and called for Phoebe, our rabbit-size Chihuahua mix, she was gone. Worse than that: she’d escaped! 

Soon I discovered a wee gap of missing backyard fence accessible only from under the house. An emaciated squirrel could fit through it, tops. But, upon further inspection I noticed some give in the boards framing that tiny escape hatch. Maybe an animal Phoebe’s size could squeeze through, if she pushed hard and smoothed her ears back good enough.  

“She can’t get through that,” my neighbor said, after I revealed how I supposed Phoebe got out. ”What’s she look like?”

He squinted again at our fence. “Look on Craigslist.”

“What do you mean?” I said. 

A shadow passed over his face. “They’re stealing small dogs and putting them up for sale on Craigslist.”

And here, I’d believed she simply escaped! Man, I just saw Phoebe twenty minutes ago. Would they–whoever they are–have her up on Craigslist already? 

I imagined, for a moment, Phoebe’s mug shot on the website under the label “BABY DOG 4 SALE” and wondered how much she’d go for. I was torn between cursing these low-life dog-nappers and commending them on a job well done. An operation that could move dogs from owners’ backyards to virtual marketplace all in twenty minutes was somewhat impressive.

Before I could race inside to tell Jess to check the web, Jess, running shoes on, was a tiny speck way down the street. I decided to cover the other half of our neighborhood. Perhaps Phoebe was following the familiar scent of the walking path we take her on. I bolted down the sidewalk, praying the whole way that the Lord would find our dog and bring swift and terrible justice on those dog-nappers. How sad it’d be to live in a Phoebe-less world.

 My search had barely begun when around the corner a little cotton ball of a dog appeared. It was fleeing from a woman and a little girl who’d spotted the thing and was now calling it from the open doors of a recklessly parked station wagon. As the dog came toward me, I realized I knew that crooked gait anywhere. It was Phoebe!

“Phoebe! Come here!” I called.

Phoebe trotted closer. She then darted pass me like a tiny spooked horse. Finally, I worked up a sterner tone, and she rolled over as if dead. Instantly, I scooped her up and made for home to show Jess my find. But before I could take two steps, the woman and her granddaughter (?) pulled up in their army green station wagon.

“Jump in,” she said. “I’ll take you home. Your wife is worried. She told us about Phoebe.” Her grandkid, placed in the backseat like a sack of groceries, was mutely enjoying the excitement of the day. “I rescue dogs,” the woman announced on the way. 

You mean, as a profession? I wondered. Upon reaching my house, the woman bid me farewell, the kid waved weakly from the car window, and they sped off, probably hot on the trail of more dogs to save. And just like that, the answer to my prayers was gone. 

From the curb, I hoisted Phoebe up like Simba in Lion King, to show my neighbor the search was over. He killed his mower and came over smiling. But the celebration was short-lived. I was warned again of the dog-nappers.

So what if Phoebe escaped all by herself. I was just lucky; that’s all. Dog-nappers were still on the loose, lurking, plotting, documenting the times I let Phoebe out.

Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but be happy that we’d managed to keep Phoebe in our midst for at least one more day. In the meantime, I promise to work feverishly to teach Phoebe to never, ever take dog treats from strangers. Or from my neighbor, for that matter.

Categories: About a dog
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