It all began about a year ago. Friends from San Diego were flying off to Italy for two weeks, and asked if my wife and I would care for Charley, their cocker spaniel. Some instinct made me point out to them that we live in Los Angeles, and it was hardly worth driving 140 miles out of their way to drop off their dog. As luck, bad luck, would have it, they were taking off from LAX. Knowing that Charley and our dog, Sammy, had gotten along okay in the past, I reluctantly okayed the plan.
For the first few days, things went along just fine. The dogs pretty much ignored each other, except when I would offer one of Sammy's treats to Charley. Then Sammy would give a look that strongly suggested he had expected better of me. Oh, sure, the look seemed to say, we're best friends, but obviously the two of us have very different notions of what friendship is all about.
Then one dark night came the nightmare that would put a Wes Craven movie to shame. My wife had gone off to visit a chum, leaving us three guys to fend for ourselves.
I was in the den watching a baseball game on TV. Every couple of innings, I would check up on the animals. It was the sixth inning when I strolled through the house and discovered Charley wasn't anywhere in sight. No reason to panic, I assured myself, as panic began to set in. I checked the enclosed backyard. No Charley. I checked all through the house, calling his name. No Charley. Through all this, Sammy trotted along behind me giving me quizzical looks.
I phoned my wife at her friend's house, praying she'd taken Charley along for a visit. No such luck.
Now, finally, I could settle down to some good serious panic.
I got a flashlight and began to prowl the neighborhood. It was at this point it occurred to me that if anyone found Charley and tried phoning the number on his tag, they'd reach a phone 140 miles away. And there would be no answer because those lucky people were having the time of their lives, gorging on pasta, not giving a damn about Charley!
After half an hour, I decided to cover more turf and came home for my car. I must have covered a good square mile, driving up and down every street and alley in the neighborhood. Each and every shadow looked like Charley, but no shadow was. Remembering old Lassie movies, I pictured Charley hoofing it back to his home in search of his globe-trotting owners.
By that time, I came to the realization that I might never see Charley again. How would I break the news to our erstwhile friends? I even, God help me, considered the possibility of pulling off a switch. That's how desperate I was. I mean, a cocker spaniel is a cocker spaniel, I reasoned. So long as I matched the color -- fawn brown, I think they call it -- and taught him to answer to "Charley," I figured I had a better than even chance of pulling it off. It's not as if they were going to match fingerprints, for heaven's sake. Okay, it wasn't a great plan, but could you have done better?
At last, admitting defeat as a tracker, I drove home. Only then did I think of phoning the dog pound. Perhaps, I prayed, a good Samaritan had turned him in.
As I sat in my office looking up the number, I heard a tiny sound behind me. When I turned around, though, only Sammy was there, sitting on his haunches. Apparently he hadn't heard any suspicious noise. I turned back to the phone book. But once again I heard that strange little sound. Again I turned around. Sammy gave no sign that he had heard anything. Which struck me as odd. How was it possible I could hear something that he couldn't? Sammy was giving me one of those butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth looks that I have never been able to decipher, not in him and not in my wife.
Again, the sound. It seemed to come from my closet. But that made no sense, because the closet had two sliding doors on it, and both doors were closed flush. When I slid open the door, I expected I might find a mouse. It wasn't possible that Charley would be inside, squeezed into the narrow space between the metal file cabinet and the fold-up poker table. But he was. What's more, he looked embarrassed, which was only right.
At the time of our reunion, I experienced only joy and great relief. I was curious, of course, but that mainly came later, when I tried to actually solve the mystery.
The best I can do is guess, seeing as how the only two witnesses to the actual event were dogs. Still, based on the evidence, I can't be too far off. Because the doors of the closet had rubber bumpers, they usually bounced a few inches open when you slid them shut. If you wanted them flush, you had to take extra pains. Presumably, Charley nosed one of the doors open far enough to enter and investigate. It is possible, but highly improbable, that his tail inadvertently closed the door behind him. That, however, wouldn't explain why he hadn't bothered to bark when I went through the house calling his name.
My theory is that once he saw Charley enter the closet, Sammy nosed it shut behind him. Or maybe Sammy had talked him into playing a canine version of hide-and-go-seek, and Charley had decided he'd rather starve than give himself away.
Whatever the scenario, I'm willing to wager that Sammy was acting out a doggy form of sibling rivalry.
What really scares me in retrospect is that there are times when I don't go into that closet for weeks at a time. Which means that when our friends got back from Italy, I might have found myself saying, "The good news is that Charley and Sammy got along like gangbusters. The bad news is that Charley's been off his feed lately."
Worst of all, it's been nearly a year now since I've dared turn my back on Sammy.
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©2004 Burt Prelutsky
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