It happened again. Gilligan and Ozzy made a mad dash for freedom the other night. I was a little surprised they took off because I was throwing a big, bone-shaped floating toy into the cove for Gilligan. An engaged Gilligan is generally a good Gilligan. But he took off, clenching that goofy fuzzyellowbone and oblivious to my fading shouts. Ozzy was close at his heels, charging into a night of debauchery.
I found the toy up by the road. Gilligan and Ozzy were nowhere in sight, but dogs where barking all over in the surrounding neighborhood. A party was brewing. A full-out dog kegger.
At 11 p.m. I’d resigned myself to the fact they weren’t coming back and that they’d be spending a 20-some degree night outside. At Lara’s insistence, we cracked the garage so they could get in there if they returned.
Next morning I went straight to the garage to see if they were there. Ozzy scampered for the driveway to escape my wrath. But then I heard a noise in the back corner of the garage. I looked up just in time to see Gilligan stretching in the front seat of my Lexus convertible, which was parked with the top down. He hopped out as if he’d just driven up in it and I was the valet he was tossing the keys to.
Needless to say, that’s not the reception he received …