Escape Artists

Kemba, what the heck!!??

Last night around 10 I sent him out to the backyard for his goodnight pee.  Fairly normal stuff.  Sometimes he’ll prowl the property a bit, though there’s not a helluva lot to explore, since the downsize.  Or he might grab a tennis ball to gnaw some holes into.  I’ll usually see him at the back door, in his patient, resting-on-his-haunches, aren’t-I-cute pose (see photo, right) within three or four minutes, mission accomplished.  But this time, five minutes go by, and no Kemba.  Then eight minutes.  I go out back, and case the whole yard.  Nope.  No dog.

The irony is that since his two-week “sleep-away camp” (aka training session) in late August, he wears his e-collar every waking moment, and I likewise, wear the control buzzer, like a medallion, around my neck.  This would allow me to give the “Kemba, come!” command, along with just a teensy vibration reminder, and he’d come running.  But I’d just taken the gear off for overnight charging.  So I was left to track him down the old-fashioned way.

Leaving the front and back doors open, in case he returned on his own, I began canvassing the neighborhood.  Though not in full-blown panic (as I was summer-before-last in Amagansett, when Kemba freaked out in a thunderstorm, charged through the screen door slider, sprinted down the beach, and wound up huddled in a stranger’s truck a mile-and-a-half away; see “My Scariest Half Hour Ever”), I was more than a little concerned.  This was not typical Kemba behavior.

A number of people out walking their dogs, seeing me with a leash but no pet, made inquiry.  “He never does this,” I kept repeating, over and over, as much to myself as to them.  I’m sure they thought I was nuts, or a liar.  “All dogs do this,” I heard one guy say, when he thought I was out of earshot.

But really, not mine.  Though extremely active and athletic (not to mention brilliant and gorgeous), Kemba is not adventurous.  He likes to be with his family.  He likes to be with me.  More often than not, when I take a step, I find he’s under my feet.  He’s a homebody.

I made a few circuits of the adjacent blocks.  One woman said she’d spotted a dog on Fairfield Avenue.  She thought he looked “confused.” I turned the corner to look for him on Fairfield Avenue.  No Kemba.  Eventually I doubled back and checked at home.  And there he was, in the living room . . . in his “patient” pose.  Trying his best to look innocent.  I asked him again and again, “Where were you??  What the heck was that all about??”  I got nothing.  Not a word.  Apparently what happens on Fairfield Avenue stays on Fairfield Avenue.

Oh, and thanks, by the way, to Kristin and to Matt, two neighbors who went above and beyond in trying to help find my dog.

So today, an unusual set of domestic circumstances led to my being in charge of not only Kemba, but also Ruckus, my son’s dog.  A couple of hours ago I let them both out to pee.  Kemba, chastened by the events of last night, came right back in.  Ruckus, though, seized the opportunity, and made a run for it.

Again: I did the walk of shame (leash in hand; no dog in sight) down my block.  I encountered a couple walking, about four houses down.  “Brindle pitbull mix,” I said.  They told me they saw him a second ago.  Aha — and there he is!  I nab the Ruckster, snap on his leash, and give him a piece of my mind.

I’m not really sure what’s going on here with these two.  Must be something in the brisk autumn air . . .

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