The Wanderer

I was sleeping deeply, but not well when I heard it. Something between a growl and a howl. I woke up. 4:25 AM. I must have been snoring because I was alone. When I snore John just quietly retreats to the guest room. He has learned from bitter experience not to awaken me. Something else was missing. Arlo. When I’d fallen asleep the big white dog was curled up between John and me. Thinking he might have followed John to the guest room. I checked. No Arlo. Just John – snoring away. (Later he will tell me he had insomnia – didn’t sleep a wink.) I search the rest of the house looking for Arlo. I check in all the usual hiding places. Bathtubs, puppy crate, under beds, behind the big chair in the living room, under my desk. I go back to the guest room to check again to see if he is there. He isn’t. Finally, close to panic, I shake John. “Honey, I can’t find Arlo.” He wakes up quickly. If he had to choose between losing me and losing that dog I would lose. He looks in all the places I have already looked…and behind the woodstove. Then he notices the patio door is open – just a few inches. “The door is open,” he moans. Panic creeps across his face. “Arlo, Arlo come here” I shout from the kitchen - accompanying the call with the customary two claps I always use to beckon him. A second later a big white head peeks through the open door. His expression says – “What’s the matter? Can’t a fellow take a little moonlight stroll?” He smells of fresh earth. I check him for injuries. He has apparently avoided the coyote and fox that have begun to frequent our suburban neighborhood. He has learned a new trick. How to open the patio door. He tries the (now locked) door at least a dozen times between his unscathed return at 4:45 am and our 7:00 am departure for work. I make a mental note to remember to keep the door locked and say a silent prayer of gratitude.