And then I lost her

Yesterday afternoon, I let all three dogs out into the yard. You've seen pictures of our backyard; it's enclosed by a white picket fence, with three green gates. It's a fence that Riley could jump over, but never has, and a fence that Cinder can squeeze under. But I was confident it was a 14-year-old Abby Jo-proof fence. She might be able to flatten herself out and squeeze under one of the gates, but it seems doubtful and she has never shown the slightest inclination.

While they were in the yard, I stood at the kitchen window and scrubbed out the sink. Then I went back outside to bring them back in.

There were only two dogs in the yard, and they were both big and black and mine.

No Abby Jo.

I was alarmed, but not worried. Sometimes she likes going way in the back of the yard by the hostas, or under the lilac bush--she lies down in the dirt and it's hard to see her under all that foliage.

But no, she wasn't there. I called her name, but even as I called it I remembered that Lo had told me that AJ is nearly deaf now.

I began to get worried. Ran to the gates. No dog. No evidence that a dog had squeezed under them, but how would I tell?

I raced back into the house; she must have slipped inside when I wasn't looking. I checked the downstairs, the front porch. No dog. Upstairs. Under the beds, in the bathroom. Behind the doors. She's such a little dog. She could be anywhere. But she wasn't; she wasn't anywhere at all.

Back downstairs, starting to panic now. If I lose Lo's dog, I will have to move, change my name, never show my face around here again. I couldn't think beyond that; couldn't think how devastated Lo and her husband would be.

Back out into the yard, yelling and yelling. Abby Jo! Abby Jo! Fighting that panic. Boscoe and Riley, agitated by my shouting, pranced around me. I squeezed down the little alley between the garage and the side fence. Riley loves it down there; maybe Abby Jo had discovered it, too. But no. No Abby Jo.

Through the gate into the front yard. No little white dog. Scanned up and down the street. No dog.

Now what? Now what?

I was barefoot, disheveled, my throat already sore from yelling.

Check the house one more time. Put on some shoes. Make a plan.

The basement? What about the basement? The basement door was firmly closed, but it was the only place I hadn't yet looked. I opened the door, dashed down the stairs. And there she was, milling around, sniffing everything, trotting busily into the laundry room, out of the laundry room, searching for who knows what.

It took long, long minutes before I felt relief. I just stood in the basement and stared at her. How the heck did she get down there? How did she get past me as I scrubbed the sink? How did she open the basement door? How did she close it behind her?