Yesterday’s excitement started shortly after Kemba’s daily first-thing-in-the-morning beach session (pee/poop/fetch-sticks-in-ocean). The sky was already beginning to look ominous, and a thunderstorm was in the forecast — but I had planned to go for a run, and you all know how much I love changing my plans. My one concession to the impending weather was that I decided to run loops around the perimeter of the neighborhood, rather than out and back on Napeague Meadow Road, so I’d be a bit closer to home, in case. Kemba trotted up to his usual perch in the sleeping loft, to observe my take-off.
Sure enough, as I turned the corner from Dolphin Drive onto 27, on my very first lap, it started: a remarkably loud clap of thunder, some truly scary lightning bolts, and seconds later, drenching rain. In about zero seconds my dry-fit had turned to soak-fit and my running shoes were a squishy mess. I cut my loop short, dashing home via Atlantic Drive. I doubt it was more than four minutes from the first thunder blast to my arrival at the front door.
Kemba generally greets me, tail wagging, when I get home from anywhere, but I didn’t see him. I assumed the storm had spooked him a bit, that he was in a bathroom or under a bed or some other “safe” place, and would eventually appear at the sound of my voice. I made my way through the the house, discarding wet running gear, mopping up where the floors had been soaked through open windows, casually on the lookout for Kemba. No big hurry.
After a cursory once-over, and still no dog, I began to intensify my search. I called out loudly for him, checked every corner of every room, opened every closet, looked under all the beds and couches. Still no Duck Toller.
Had he somehow gotten out on the deck? I went out there and looked. Nope. Under the deck? Nope again. I jogged down to the beach, calling Kemba’s name every few seconds. Scanned east and west. The waves were crazy. No dog in sight.
I did the same thing out front on the road, checking as far as the White Sands Motel, where he’s been known to wander. No luck.
By now, yes, I’d begun to panic. Probably most of you know the stages: 1. I don’t see my dog, but no big deal; 2. He must be here somewhere; 3. I guess I really ought to start searching for him; 4. Where the hell is he??!! I imagined him, terrified by the storm, trying to sprint across Highway 27. I imagined him flailing desperately in the wild surf. Then I pictured his sweet, sweet face, looking up at me, head tilted, with that upbeat, “what-do-you-want-to-do-now?” expression.
I realized I didn’t have my phone with me. I ran back to the house to grab it. Yes! There was a call from the 631 area code, just five minutes ago! I called back: It was a worker at the Ocean Colony Resort — 7/10 of a mile down the beach from us. He said he had Kemba, and would wait for me.
I raced over in my car. The worker, Adrian, said that Kemba, looking frantic, had run up to him from the beach . . . and jumped into his truck! He told me he loved dogs, had a German Shepherd puppy, and was glad
he was able to get Kemba back to me. He also said Kemba had been a good boy.
Wow.
Back home, after giving Kemba all the treats he wanted, I pieced it together. Both slider screens in the main room had been knocked way off their tracks. Clearly Kemba, in his thunder-and-lightning frenzy, had blasted through the screens, out onto the deck, leaped the gate, and sprinted down to the beach, racing to the first person he could find.
I took a look at the bone-shaped doggy tag on his blue collar. The engraving on it, thanks to an entire summer in salt water, was all but invisible (see photo). How the hell
Adrian was able to decipher the identification info, I’ll never know. Thank God he did.
And yes, an order for a brand-new collar, this one with Kemba’s name and my phone number printed on it in bold, easy-to-read characters, has already been placed.
* Wait, there was also the time Ricky went missing — for a half hour as well — while I was visiting my high school friend Lucy in Denver during LA/XC-2, back in 2012. So tied for scariest, I guess.
LOOK FOR A NEW BEAGLE MAN POST EVERY THURSDAY. OR PRETTY CLOSE TO THURSDAY. COULD BE WEDNESDAY. OR FRIDAY. LET’S NOT GET TOO OBSESSIVE HERE . . . 🙂 OH, AND BTW, YOU CAN ALSO FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK AND INSTAGRAM.
Thank heavens Kemba is safe and YOU didn’t have a heart attack!
Thankfully the happy ending was on the way from the beginning of your story so I enjoyed bittersweet chuckling the whole way through. Made me recall being stuck in Manhattan on a fourth of July decades ago and losing track of Thor in my apt ( that’s pretty hard to do, you’ve seen the size of my apartment there.) Found her behind the shower curtain shaking violently in the bathub where I joined her, trying to cover her ears and calm her down for the duration of the fireworks. Another memory: amagansett too, I think: water was too rough for swimmers but not my thor who said, ‘c’mon, throw that frisbee out one more time.’ And, being a sucker , I did, and that frisbee caught a long ride from the wind and went out and out and out and so did Thor who refused to swim back despite my screeching calls. She retrieved the frisbee, of course, but even from such a distance I could tell that suddenly she was no longer pleased. Maybe she was tired,maybe a bit of the undertow was after her. She seemed to be turning in frantic circles for what seemed hours (okay maybe 15 seconds.)
She was a better swimmer than I and I knew I had no chance of success at getting to her and there was no evidence of heroes among whomsomever I was with. But she did manage to dig deep and regain control and got back to me. So yeah, i can really imagine what you were going through.
Good ending. Adrian what a nice guy!
Even though I knew there would be a happy ending, I was a bit scared reading about the missing Kemba. I am so happy Adrian was good enough to keep Kemba safe and find you. I am so grateful my beagle doesn’t run away or gets scared of T-storms.
Thanks for the wonderful story. Mary