Last night as I came to bed...I had that "something is wrong feeling" creep up on me...but I shrugged it off and got in bed. Then it hit me...Rita, my canine daughter, wasn't pissed off tht I woke her up on my side of the bed and made her move...she wasn't pissed...beacause she wasn't there. Sure enough...my dear little dog pulled a David Copperfield again.

Oh crap.

I have reposted below the last time Rita went on a walkabout in October and damn near gave me a nervous breakdown because of it.

This time, my human daughter Zuzu had left the gate open while playing with a neighbors dog...how's that for irony...and our almost fully deaf darling Rita jumped on the back of a motorcycle and sped off with  Steve McQueen making her escape.

Normally this isn't a problem, she would often go on walking jaunts...but she always came back. Never gone for more than half an hour. But now that she's older...she gets confused and just cant find her way back. Or it might just have been some "Oh my God there's a dog out there...I need to call the ASPCA right away or that wild mutt will eat my garden gnome!" idiot, made a phone call...but lets say for now...she got lost.

This time, instead of going nuts, I went right to the our local animal shelter website, where thanks to my human daughter I found Rita last time...and there she was.

At least this time she doesn't look scared. She must remember last time how they brushed her, bathed her, clipped her toe-nails and gave her treats. My luck she'll start trying to get away more so she'll wind up at her day spa.

Tomorow morning when I pick her up and pay her bail (dont get me started about that) I'm going to ask if they have some kind of frequent guest program. That way I can at least put the points towards something useful...like a lock on our gate.

And below is the post from October when she flew the coop the first time.

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At 2am the other night…something hit me. Where’s Rita?

Rita is our family dog. At least that’s what outsiders would call her. To us she’s always been our little girl. Then after our human children came along, she also took on the role of big sister. I found it interesting over the years how Rita would always pay closer attention to the youngest. She now sticks like glue to Zuzu, our 4 ½ year old girl. But when Hunter was little (he is eleven now) if he was playing by himself, and we were off doing other things around the house, Rita was always by his side. Some people have pets…Rita is a member of our family.

But something late that night was wrong. I could feel it.

Rita became a Farrington from a visit to a shelter fourteen years ago on Long Island. At that time my wife and I lived in what was called “a transitional” part of Manhattan. That’s a nice was of saying, your low rent big apartment may be nice…but duck when you hear gunfire. At night, as we lay in bed, we heard so many gunshots we invented a game called “Name that Caliber”.

So when the day came that we both decided we wanted a dog…I suggested we get big one. A great big scary dog that would intimidate the crack induced sociopaths that added such delightful color to the neighborhood. At least that was the plan.

Upon arrival to the shelter, we were informed we could only look at one dog at a time. I immediately zeroed in on a beautiful black lab puppy with huge paws…perfect! But the volunteers that worked there had cornered my wife. “You need to see the puppy we have over here” “She is the sweetest thing we’ve ever seen” and then the clincher “she came from an abusive home” That was when my wife shot me her “puppy dog eyes”.

I put the perfect dog back and headed off towards inevitability. Behind me I heard a little boy’s voice yelling “Daddy! I want the black one!”…great…just great.

In my wife’s arms I laid eyes on a shivering, ears down, kicking her head with her back foot, odd breed of dog that I certainly didn’t recognize. One of the volunteers explained to me that their best guess was a Whippit-German shepherd mix. “What the heck is a Whippit” I asked…” “it’s like a miniature grey hound”  To this day, the image of a big German Shepherd and a tiny miniature racing dog making puppies lingers in my head.

I looked back longingly at the adorable black lab…he was licking the little boys face. He and his parents looked like a Norman Rockwell painting that was mocking me. I turned back to give my wife my best “you’ve got to be kidding me” expression, when I saw…what I swear to this day was in slow motion…a tear falling off my wife’s cheek and landing on the nose of this mess of a dog. Checkmate…game over.

So now we had a six month old puppy. I wont get into the woes of housebreaking...all dog owners know that odyssey. But this new Farrington had a unique talent. She wouldn’t eat food out of a bowl. Hell…she wouldn’t even eat food off the floor for crying out loud. Ready for this…she would only eat food out of our cupped hands. Five months straight, three times a day, sitting Indian style on the floor with wet dog food in our cupped hands. Yeah…she was really winning me over. And guess what, no matter how many times you wash your hands…they still smell like Alpo.

Finally we got her to eat out of a bowl. Here’s the amazing thing, throughout her life she never, ever ate food again unless it was in a bowl. She wouldn’t even eat food left out within her reach. She would just stare at it, as if through telekinesis, she’d be able to levitate it into that ceramic container of comfortable goodness. But this last year, I guess because of her getting up in age…she started grabbing food anytime and anywhere she saw it. And that was the problem… Hunter left out some McDonalds French fries on the coffee table…and they were still there.

I decided to check on Rita. She wasn’t on our bed, or on the floor by one of the kid's beds…her two preferred sleeping quarters. I checked all over the house, when it finally hit me…she wasn’t here.

Three in the morning, my son and I are driving around our mostly republican neighborhood, in a SUV sporting three Obama/Biden bumper-stickers, shinning flashlights into their yards. I’m surprised no one called Homeland Security.

My son and wife eventually went back to bed. I couldn’t sleep. Sure, Rita's gotten out before, but she never goes more than a block or so and always comes back home. Then I remembered hearing about how old dogs run off to die alone…and that’s when it dawned on me. She might really be gone…forever. And just like that, it suddenly became overwhelmingly too much to bare.

I got to tell you…I was completely surprised by the flood of emotions that engulfed me. Not to mention the mental montage of memories ricocheting through my head. Funny how years ago I felt we took home the wrong dog…and now it felt like I couldn’t live without her.  She never became the protective dog I wanted…honestly, she wouldn’t know the difference between a burglar or Mother Teresa…but she was gone and it was killing me.

I’m sure part of the reason was because Rita was named after a cousin of mine that died very young…but mostly I knew it was because that volunteer at the shelter was absolutely right…she was the sweetest thing.

Time flew…next thing I knew my wife was asking me if I wanted anything for breakfast. I’m not sure how that triggered it…but the next thing I know we’re hugging each other and bawling like babies.

“What’s wrong?”

I look down and saw my daughter Zuzu with her amazing flock of morning hair. Uh oh…someone needs to tell her. Even though one of my talents is sleight of hand…my wife is an illusionist…she had completely disappeared. So I kneeled down and filled her in. Just when it looked like it sunk in and she was about to cry…she smiled.

“Daddy…she’s probably in the pound. On my Caillou DVD they go to the pound to look for his cat”

That whole night of knots in my stomach tightened by fear…and I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.

I get online and found the local humane society shelter website. My intention was to get the number and call them when they open…but a cool feature of theirs caught my attention. They would post photos of stray dogs they picked up…and sure enough...there was Rita.

Talk about from one extreme to the other…that picture of her online just made me bust a gut laughing. I know my little girl…and that photo is her “what the hell is going on” look.

I kissed and thanked my daughter Zuzu for being so smart and I made a mental note to get her some of those vanilla lollipops from Sees Candies that she loves so much.

As I write this…Rita is right here in my office on the floor next to me fast asleep. Which is kind of odd…she hasn’t done that since she was a puppy.

But here's the thing…I have a feeling she went though the same kind of night that I did.

UPDATE APRIL 28TH

My daughter Zuzu and I just got back from the animal shelter. Rita is home safe and sound. Turns out she got picked up in front of our house.

Nice...

Someone on a cross street saw her and was very concerned my dog would eat her garden gnome...so this lady called animal rescue. (actually she was concerned Rita might get hit by a car...so I'm trying my best not to go break her garden gnome). 

Turns out, even though Rita was seen a half a block away, she got picked up trying to come back home. If she had been wearing her tag...which is attached to her collar...which my human daughter had taken off that day to dress Rita up in a Hannah Montanna dress (dont ask.)...she would have been brought to our home instead of the shelter.

Nice...

And that ladies and gentlemen are why boys are easier.

But then again...if my son, when he was little, had dressed up Rita...she would have been wearing a helmet, a flak jacket and carrying a plastic automatic rifle. So probably instead of an animal rescue officer getting Rita...she would have been surrounded by a swat team.

At least now she went from being THIS DOG...to RITA in their database...