Golden Boy Goes Missing

By Belinda

The morning was still dark at 6.45 am and I was out of the bathroom and into the kitchen already, stirring a robust pot of oatmeal . I anticipated the taste on my tongue of first coffee as I stirred, happy to be up in good time for an unrushed morning before work.

But just as work expands to fill the time available, "life" inevitably seems to fill up a void when there is one. And so it was this morning.

I was stirring the oatmeal, peaceful in the solitude of early morning when Brenda entered from stage left. Brenda usually leaves for work just before 7.00 am--even though she doesn't need to be at work until 8.00 and work is not an hour away. She is her father's daughter in this regard. But she was discombobulated. Worry was etched on her face and her dark blond hair and black coat were all awry.

"Molson ran off," she said, "And I've just driven around the block looking for him."

"Molson ran off?" I echoed inanely, because that is so unlike Molson, our homebody dog.

Brenda had been making breakfast in her kitchen downstairs when he barked at something and made her jump. She opened the sliding glass door for him to go do his morning business; opened it onto the dark lawn leading to the fields and the hills. She shook his bag of treats to remind him what awaited him on coming inside and he ran off into the dark and didn't come back.

Now Mo mo is such a good boy normally. He doesn't wander far from home. The thought of him "out there" somewhere, or horror of horrors, on the road, was scary.

I went out on our deck and called across the fields, to no avail.

Brenda went back downstairs, while I finished making the oatmeal. Then I went down and said I was just going out to call again.

"He won't come Mom, I've tried," she said from where she was sitting, disconsolate, in a chair.

I went to the door, slid it open and called, "Molson!"

From stage left (yes indeed) came the jingle of tags, and flash of golden fur.

A dog who looked exceedingly glad to be "found," bounded down the hill and into the house, whinnying and whimpering with joy to be home. He was beside himself with relief, darting between the two people he loves most in the world in a delirious dance of doggy happiness.

And we laughed with relief too, and gave him treats for coming back like a "good boy."

My margin of time was all gone, but I was grateful. All was well in our world again.

And I thought of how like Molson I am; glad to be "found" when I have wandered off track; glad to come "home" to a Father who never opens a door with anything but love and welcome.