GUS GONE WILD

It occurs to me that Mom probably shouldn't have confessed on her blog to losing Gus one evening.

No, Gus isn't a brother or a grandkid or my dad. He's their dog. A well-behaved, sweet Westie. He's Sophie's uncle and reluctantly takes her under his, uh, wing when we come to visit.

My parents' backyard is currently fenceless (racy, I know), and when we're in town somehow someone lets the dogs out for their routine bio breaks (such necessary periods of relief are called Bio Breaks in the world of corporate training; I've been told "let's take a fifteen minute bio break and be back at, oh, [2:43]" more times than I can recall), and forgets that when my dog comes to Utah she lets loose her wanderer's soul and decides to check out the neighborhood. People forget this and they leave the dogs outside without a fence to fend for themselves in the lone and dreary Elk Ridge.

When Gus is home without a Soph to babysit, he stays in the yard--despite the absent fence--and waits for a squirrel to chase. But when my little Yorkie comes to town and sees that back door closed, she gets all feral. She heads for the hills and good Uncle Gus sighs and follows her. For although the humans inside forget that Soph becomes irresponsible when she is left alone outdoors, Gus recalls and goes along to watch over the little beast as she seeks to "find herself," much like a selfish, midlife mother turned divorcee.

However, a few days ago, Gus got lost. On his own. Without Soph to lead him. He was found. On another street. On a porch. Shivering in the rain.

And I don't think Mom should have blogged about it. Because normally her blog makes me so happy. And ignorance is a dreamy kind of bliss.