So, I get home this evening, go upstairs, and am combing Lovegirl’s hair while on the phone chatting with my mother. The 2nd line beeps in.
“Hello?” “I got yer dog.” “Excuse me?” “I got yer dog.” “I think you have the wrong number.” I hang up.
The number calls back. I don’t answer. A few minutes pass and a local number pops up on the ID.
“Hello?” “Mrs. Nerd Girl?” “Yes, this is she.” “I got yer dog.” “You have my dog?” “Yes ma’am.” “What?!” “I live two subdivisions over and I’ve got yer dog. He’s at my house.” “My dog?” “Yes ma’am.” “Is this a joke?” “No ma’am.” “A small, smelly Pomeranian?” “Yup – you want me to bring him to ya?”
**Mental conversation: “Hell no Deliverance. I will not give you my address, I’m pissed you have my phone number and don’t quite understand how you got my name. Oh wait . . . I knew there was something I forgot to do this morning – let the dog back in. Damn! I think this dude has my dog.”
“Sir?” “Yes Mrs. Nerd Girl?” “I think you have my dog. I’m sorry, I thought this was some sort of high school prank – if you give me your address, I’ll be right over.”
So, my dog – whom I’d neglected to actually let back in the house before Lovegirl and I left this morning – wandered over to the neigboring golf course where some kind Samaritan – thank you Mr. G. – saw him, picked him up, and kept him until said Samaritan contacted me on the phone this evening and Lovegirl and I retrieved him.