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.

I suddenly had the sense that I’d dodged an assasination attempt on my life, that I’d ignorantly settled down for a picnic inside a lion’s den, and, by sheer chance, escaped without a scratch. Here I’d spent the Blizzard of 2008 cracking jokes, deleting spam mail, asking what’s for dinner, treating it as any ordinary winter weekend, while nature, in all its wintry fury (sore, perhaps, over the imminent return of spring?), had declared war on the Midwest, threatening to bury our houses to the shingles, sealing us forever in a snowy tomb. I might as well have had an absent-minded tea party in the middle of the Battle of the Bulge.  ”Pass the crumpets, please.”

Oddly enough, however, a comparison to war may not be far off. Although at the time I stood oblivious to any hints of danger to myself, I did detect a potential threat to our squirrel-sized dog, Phoebe. To put it simply, the backyard is our dog’s latrine. The snow on the ground had already accumulated several inches, enough to bury Phoebe to the neck. This posed a problem, since her fur is the color of snow, and if we had tossed her outside, a snow drift may have swallowed her up, and we’d have to wait till spring, when all the snow melted, to find her again. 

Armed with only a shovel, I dug a WWII snow trench in our backyard. This was necessary to prevent Phoebe from using the bathroom inside the house. While I worked, Jess occupied the open backdoor, keeping an eye out for enemies and, most important, for any deserters, namely Phoebe, who stood trembling in the wake of the path I had just cleared. 

At first, the trench bore a hard line, stopping abruptly a few feet out from the house. But the dog took badly to its cramped design. She touched her snout to the snow and sniffed timidly. With a clump of white clinging to her charcoal-colored nose and with her tail tucked between her legs, she did an about-face and made for the warmth of the house. Deserter!

With perfect military execution, Jess placed herself in front of the doorway, ending Phoebe’s feeble escape attempt. It was back to her Arctic potty. Phoebe did the only thing she could do: she licked the air and turned to face the elements. Just then, an icy, Lake Eerie wind kicked up. Phoebe’s floppy ears smoothed neatly back to her skull. Her tiny, white head rounded into the circle of a cotton ball. Another blast of wind, and she made slits around her oil spot eyes. Her pink underside shook.

“Go potty, Phoebe,” I said. 

She was expected to “go potty” in this?

 To move things along, I improved the design of the trench. I ran the trench around the corner of the house, where I scooped out a small clearing, to give Phoebe more privacy and room to maneuver. It was still cramped quarters, though, but in the end, Phoebe squeezed in several tight circles and did her business.

“Good girl!” I said. Phoebe then scuttled back inside the house. 

Victory was ours. The battle was nature vs. nature (if you consider Phoebe, being of the animal kingdom and all, as nature), and Phoebe had fought a good fight. We laughed at her struggle, at her silly animal instincts. But little did we know the joke was on us, for we stood unknowingly in the midst of the Blizzard of 2008.  

I then went about my usual morning routine thinking about Phoebblicious. This is rather uncharacteristic of me, since I usually like to save my day dreaming for work. Whether it is the cramped cubicle quarters or the drab interior design, all week dreams about being a farmer of sorts has plagued my mind. Yesterday, I had the whole dramatic thing laid out beautifully in my mind. The plowing, the discing, the planting – I’d be out in the open field, the soil freshly turned, listening to God in the sounds or silence of nature, over the soothing rumble of my tractor. A straw hat would look quite nice on my head, sheltering me from the blazing heat. At lunchtime, Jess would come up to the edge of the field where I was hard at work, with Phoebe and our kids in tow, waving her arms, indicating lunch was ready.

I’d automatically have a subscription to Field and Stream, and it would follow that I’d own a gun rack and know the ins and outs of the sports of hunting and fishing. Minus all the back-breaking work that comes along with farming, it’d be quite the good life. We’d live simply, relying on God for a good crop and to make ends meet. Things would only get better in the wintertime when the fields were covered with snow, and Jess and I’d be around the fireplace, drinking a warm drink, not having anywhere to go and…I’m not sure what else. Sometimes I get mixed up with Little House on the Praire. I guess one of us would have to learn the fiddle or something. At any rate, the kids would all be in bed (in their wooden lofts), and we’d be sure to fall into sleepy discussion about sewing or The Farmer’s Almanac and when a good time would be to put in next year’s crops.

When I proposed this wonderful new Utopia to Jess last night over dinner, she responded, more matter-of-factly than harshly,”You married the wrong girl for that.” Afterwards, I had to admit that, although farming actually was in my blood (I come from a long line of farmers), somehow this particular gene missed me. I’m probably not really cut out for it. And that was basically the end of it. So, now I entertain lesser dreams, like Phoebblicious chewing gum.

It was pitch dark, the clock read 3:30am, when the tremors began. It startled me at first, but then the sleep left my brain and I regained my bearings. It all felt too familiar. The restrained jerks, the stiff jolts, the silent struggling – our dog Phoebe was experiencing another seizure, a mild one, but a seizure nonetheless.

Seizures have become somewhat of a trademark for Phoebe these days. She typically experiences one about every other month, and when asked, the vet reassured us that it was common in little dogs (“Toy breeds,” he called her). Their blood-sugar level drops quickly, or something, and that’s what triggers it. It was quite frightening the first time Jess and I saw Phoebe do this, but now it’s become much a part of the routine of caring for her, like feeding her or giving her a bath.

Jess was first to call it, “She’s having a seizure.” She stated this more matter-of-factly than in alarm. Then she moved in clockwork fashion, like a surgeon who sees past the gore of an ER patient to the list of immediate procedures needed to be performed.

“Get the white towel,” barked Jess. She had Phoebe sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

“Where?” I asked.

“In the closet.” In the middle of the night, I had woken up to find myself as Jess’ surgeon aid.

I came back with the white towel.

“Lay the towel down.”

“Why?”

“No questions. Just do it.”

After the towel was under Phoebe, the inevitable happened, her bladder let go. This was the predicted stage 2 of the seizure. Next, after things had calmed down, we moved into stage 3, and I carried her to the dark, dewy backyard. There, she had plenty of room to work out the rest of the shakes. I watched Phoebe finish her business from the back door window while Jess made up a new place for Phoebe to spend the remainder of the night.

From beginning to end, the seizure lasted nearly a half hour. Before I crawled back into bed at 4am, I checked espn.com to confirm my FantasyFootball defeat. It was official. I had lost, and my prize was a dog low on sugar.

Eventually, I started letting our dog Phoebe ride along with me. She soon came to love trash day, and even the slightest rustling of a garbage bag would send her to the the front door waiting expectantly, wagging her tail.

Now we live in a house, and our trash can is in the garage. Good for us. Heartbreaking for Phoebe. Although, Phoebe still continues to hold on to the Sugar Run hope. This morning, I was taking out the trash from the kitchen to the garage. Phoebe came running out of her den – she likes to take an early morning nap – wagging her tail, ready to head out to the Sugar Run dumpster. I told her sorry, not this time.

But, maybe in five years or so, when nearly all hope is lost, I’m thinking we might just have a Sugar Run dumpster reunion. Just the two of us. For old times sake.