Doggie Chase

A good third of our relatively small backyard is dedicated to the sole use and enjoyment of our dogs, Spike and Lager. Spike, a 15-year-old Bichon Frise, and Lager, a nine-year-old yellow Labrador, have plenty of room in which to run, romp, pee, and poop with abandon, while remaining safely away from cars, pedestrians, and other temptations.

I guess that wasn't good enough for them yesterday.

To be more fair, perhaps I should say that, in fact, they saw an opportunity and seized it with their furry little paws.

We have a wooden gate that opens the side yard (where the dogs hang out) to our front yard in our little gated community in La Verne. We're usually very, very diligent about making sure the gate is closed, latch is in place, and the perimeters are secure so as to avoid doggie mischief. We've been known to add an extra carabiner to the latch for good measure. This is because we know our dogs: Spike and Lager are almost always up for a good reason to explore their neighborhood.

Take, for instance, the time (over seven years ago), when the dogs escaped from the yard of our house we were renting in Claremont. At that time, our house was caddy-corner from the home of the president of Scripps College, who was also my immediate supervisor. I was about five months pregnant with David. Sitting in my former office at Scripps College one morning, I received a phone call from the president's assistant, Linda.

"Do you have two dogs?" she asked me.

I wasn't sure I liked where this line of questioning was going. Should I deny it? Claim ignorance? Fess up?

"Um, why yes! Why do you ask?"

"Well, there's a little white dog and a big yellow dog who are trying to get into Nancy's (the president) house right now."

My stomach fell to my toes, as I muttered, "oh, no."

"And the caterers are trying to deliver lunch to her house for a meeting of the Council of Presidents. Maybe you should come over."

"I'm on it," I said, and hung up the phone, all the while imagining Lager looking at the president of Pomona College, and asking him, "you gonna finish that steak?"

My dear friend and co-worker, Carolina, agreed (heck, volunteered/insisted on) to come with me, and we raced to my car and drove the three blocks to the president's house. Sure enough, there were Spike and Lager, perched happily on Nancy's front door step. To be more specific, Spike was sort of on the look out, and Lager was near the front door. Luckily for everyone, Tom, the sainted head of the food services department at Scripps, had a hold of Lager's collar and was laughing uncontrollably while having his arm almost yanked out of its socket by a 95-pound horse.

"This guy is great!" Tom declared, half laughing and half gasping for air. "And, man, is he big!"

The president's two dogs, Brando and Delilah, were none to happy to smell and hear intruders at the gate, and were barking from inside like it was going out of style. I saw my life flash before my eyes as I imagined Nancy walking up to her house and witnessing the bedlam. She loved dogs, but with the other Claremont Colleges presidents about to arrive, I would have received the tongue lashing of my life.

"LAGER! SPIKE! GET IN THE CAR! NOW!" I hollered. "RIGHT NOW. COME. HERE. RIGHT. NOW!"

Lager, not knowing how much trouble he was in, was delighted to see me and bounded toward the car. Getting him into the back of my old Jeep was easy enough; Spike, after being picked up, was glad to be carried to his coach.

We drove back to my house, and Carolina and I carefully grabbed one dog each and steered them toward our back yard. Of course, Spike, the little guy, thought this would be a great time to freak out and bite Carolina on the ankle.

But, I digress. Let me focus on the most recent episodes of Spike and Lager's excellent adventures. When we arrived home after David's drum lessons yesterday evening, the kids plopped down their bags and lunch pails, and David quickly went to his assigned task of letting the dogs out. He then prepared to scoop out their food into their respective bowls. He's awesome about this, by the way.

A few minutes passed, and I said, "David, sweetie ... would you mind letting the dogs back in?"

"Sure!" he said, and jumped off the bar stool and proceeded to the garage.

A moment passed. David returned to the kitchen and said, "Mommy, I don't hear the dogs. I think they got out."

"Really?"

"Well, the gate was sort of open, but I just closed it."

"The wood gate?"

"Yeah."

Great. Just great. Dinner was on the stove/in the microwave, it was about 40 degrees outside, and I wasn't wearing any shoes.

I went to the pantry, grabbed a bag of Snausages, and said to David, "hang out here. I'll be right back."

"Can I come with you?"

"No." I didn't want any witnesses.

I stepped out the front door, only to find Spike, looking sweet and innocent, at the end of the driveway. He looked at me, looked at the bag of doggie treats, and headed my way. "Good boy!" I bribed, as he merrily went into the house, Snausage in mouth.

Next, to hunt down the hound. "Lager! Look at what I have here!" I yelled, rattling the treat bag.

From many yards away, he heard the siren song of a Snausage, and came bounding toward me, screeching to a halt when I commanded, "SIT!"

Miraculously, he sat. He looked at the Snausage, and then back at me, and then back at the Snausage. We walked home together, and all was well. Piece o' cake.

Before we went to bed, both David and I separately checked the wood gate to ensure that it was clamped shut. Even when Spike sounded his 1:00 a.m. alarm, requesting permission for a bio break, I was awake enough to check the gate once more.

So, imagine my surprise when David went to let the dogs back in this morning, and again announced, "I think they escaped again."

"Uh, oh. Really?"

"Yeah. I just shut the gate."

So, now I'm convinced that we have a gate ghost who is messing with me.

"Okay, little man. You know the drill. I'll be right back."

"Can I come with you?"

"No."

This morning's hunt took a bit more doing; Spike was two houses away, but came gladly for a treat. It took me a few minutes to spot Lager, who was about six houses down, having already caused the neighborhood dogs to sound their alarms.

He saw me, and again bounded toward me, but first made a detour into the open garage of our neighbors, Barry and Lisa. Lisa had just stepped into her garage, only to be greeted by a hyperactive Labrador who wanted to give her a big hug. I apologized, lured Lager with another high-cholesterol treat, and walked calmly with him home.

As soon as I get home today, the carabiner is going back on the latch.