So This Is Love

Let me spare you the pain I went through and tell you that this post has a happy ending.

I have just endured the most horrible, awful, gut-wrenching 25 collective hours of my entire life. My sinuses are crammed shut, my head aches, and my eyes are covered in burst blood vessels. The skin around my eyes and nose is dotted red with little hemmhorages, because I spent about 24.5 of those 25 hours wailing my eyes out.

At about noon on Sunday, I let my Little Bit outside, and I stepped in something, so I went back to the kitchen to get a towel and clean it up. I then stepped back outside to join my dog, who always stays nearby. I didn't see her right away, so I called her name. Again. And again. And again. I dressed, put my shoes on, walked around the house. Calling. Screaming. Breathing comes faster, ragged, panic setting in. I get the phone, call Travis - hoping the sound of my voice on the phone would remind her she should be at home.

Reminder: my house is surrounded by fencing. 105 acres of fencing. That's a lot of places for a six-pound dog to hide. Within 20 minutes, I'm at full panic. I insist that Travis continue with his plans for the day, certain she'll be home soon.

One hour. Two. Three. Four and it begins to rain...pour...lightning. This dog will not set foot in wet grass. And she's not home.

I walk the property, I drive the property, I wander around soaked to the bone, yelling and sobbing. I call the landlord, who sends his son out on the ATV and calls the neighbours.

Why did I let her out ahead of me? Why did I turn back to clean up a little puddle? Why wasn't I home more? Why didn't I make sure she knew how much I wanted her to always be near me?

Eyes swelled to slits, terrified for what she must be going through, I head over to Travis' house to make posters. (No printer, no way to generate them from home...leaving the house was the hardest thing I've ever done. I left her food, water, bed, and a toy on the front porch - "Please don't go anywhere, stay here and I will be back for you...you are wanted, needed, loved.")

I frantically create signs, print 30, dash home. We hang them and wait. It's dark. 105 acres. Three gates, easy enough for a tiny dog to squeeze past if she really wants to. Owls, hawks, coyotes, the neighbour's Rottweiler mix has gone missing...if she's not home by nightfall, she won't come home. I try to sleep, but close my eyes and see all sorts of awful images. I sleep maybe two hours all night...the rest of it is spent alternately sobbing, wandering the house in an attempt to make sure my restlessness doesn't disturb the sleep of the support system lying next to me. Several times I jolt awake and make a dash for the front door - am I awake because I sensed her there? Each time I open the door (and that door got opened a LOT,) I expect to see her there, but don't, and then remember the last time I saw her standing outside the door waiting for me to join her.

I wake in the morning, call in to work (no way, no way). I've told Mom and Jessi - Jessi didn't even let me finish the sentence "Little Bit's missing" before she was jumping in the car to drive north. I insisted she stay put...my gut was giving me bad news, and I didn't see the point. I get through the day as best I can - once Travis leaves (he called in too,) I begin to get ready. Put an ad in the Sentinel, call all the shelters, hang more posters, keep the faith. I take a shower, call Mom. I'm talking to her and I hear a sound. It's the "Hey, I'm done out here Mom, can I come in?" scratch. My heart comes to a full and complete stop. I'm imagining this. I go to the door, open it, hoping with all my heart, but expecting the trickery of my mind. And she bolts through the door. For the last time of the day, my sinuses empty of all the water in my body - I wail, my mom starts to cry, I hang up the phone and smother my dog with every last bit of love I have for her. A bath, and a good check-over, and she seems fine - not a scratch. I want her to tell me where she's been, what she's seen, how she did it...my brave little girl, my little tough chickie. We curl up on the bed and pass out - she's exhausted. But she's safe, and alive, and I'm now completely aware of just how much I love this little girl.