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Saturday is my sleep in day.
It’s a rule in my house that (as long as we don’t have anything to do) no one is allowed to wake me up on Saturday mornings. So, when I woke up this Saturday, I just assumed the dog was in the backyard.
This was my third mistake.
Let me back up.
Since I sleep in late on Saturdays, I tend to stay up SUPER late on Friday night. (We’re talking until like 6 or 7am. I am queen of the night.) When I came to bed, I thought my pomeranian, Hercules, was already sound asleep in my bedroom somewhere. Well, as it turns out, when my husband went to bed several hours earlier– he did not take the dog with him.
Okay, really–all this is just my way of making one big giant excuse for being the most fail pet owner on the planet, because when I woke up about the crack o’ noon on Saturday and went to feed my dog, he didn’t come running.
So I asked the fam, “Um–have you guys seen the dog?”
“No,” they replied. “We thought he was still asleep in the other room with you.”
The panic set in, and I see it hit my husband too as we split up for the search.
Under the bed? No dog. In the yard? No dog. Kissy noises and shaking the treat jar? No dog.
He was seriously gone.
So, we jumped in the car and drove around the neighborhood yelling for him out the windows. There we were, daughter crying, husband driving, and me yelling– a totally lost cause.
Until my husband slammed on the brakes. Why? Because a cardboard sign was stuck to a lamp post, someone found a Pomeranian– and all I could do was get that sign down as fast as possible.
Why? Not because I lost my dog for a whole night and didn’t notice, not because I was driving around and freak out happy that we’d found our pup even though I was sure I’d never see him again.
Nope. Because I’m a spelling nazi.
And a horrible person for making fun of the people who saved my poor lost dog…