Spot's Splice

Spot’s Splice 9/26/13

 My dog was lost for the second time. It was dusk by the time the news had spread; everyone was executing their daily activities. We had only noticed after a long while...

  “What’s for dinner?” I questioned, my stomach growling with anticipation for the answer to be something Asian. “Sausage and sauerkraut,” replied my Dad, combining ingredients. Was it just me, but didn’t we have that last night? My thought did not have time to make the connection, for my brother had entered the kitchen after moving swiftly from the backyard door. His face was cotton ball-white. Had something happened? Of course something happened, why else would his face be white? But what is it? What could it– 

  Then I made the connection: He came from the backyard and his face was as white as a ball of cotton. It was Spot. All of these thought raced in my mind in a moment and crashed into each other, causing my speech to falter. “Is he, w-what ha-happened?” He was looking down with nothing but a blank stare to show for an answer. I collapsed to the floor, my knees buckling under me. It couldn’t be true.

  “No,” answered Owin shaking his head. “He’s gone.”

  Gone? Where had he gone?

  “The gate was opened, he must have ran away,” continued Owin.

  We gathered the rest of my family – my brother Leo, and our Mom – and went in the back to confirm the known truth. My family and I then checked everywhere, looking under, over, and around the deck and in the small grassy extension just beyond it. Not a single trace of him was found – no curly white tail or joyful doggy face. My Dad had then noticed the gate: It was wide opened, just as Owin had said.

  “The wind must've blown it open,” explained my dad, running his hand along the red-painted wood. “The wood's rotting, and the nail is barely secure enough to keep it closed.”

  “Well let's go,” replied Leo. “We have to go look for him.”

  And we did. We drove through streets, roads, lanes, and whatever other name you could think of, but they all meant the same thing: distance between us and Spot.

  There were also mini playgrounds spread throughout the neighborhood. We had checked some of them, and all the sidewalks that we had time to walk. The Sun, though, was already in the western skies, but our faces were still shining with determination. However, we had to go back home. School was tomorrow.

  The next day proved to be similar to the first. We looked around every corner and intersection; every place we could have possibly thought of, we searched. I was beginning to doubt his return, though it had only been about two days. I wanted to believe he would return, but I felt one could never be too sure.

   On Wednesday, however, the circumstances changed. I had arrived home after the allotted seven hours of school and walked into the living room.

  “Hi!” I exclaimed. “I'm home!”

  “Oh, you're finally home,” answered my mom. “Owin and Angela are going to put signs up. You should go and help them.”

  “Okay.” Signs? Why had I not thought of that?

  I did as she said and assisted Owin and Angela (Owin's friend). The three of us (for Leo was not home) then, with stapler, tape, and fliers in hand, walked around the neighborhood posting the face of Spot on every other telephone pole we came across.

  Click! Click! Click! The telephone pole took more than a few staples to keep the paper from falling and sending Spot flying away. 

    We did not talk in excess; we said only the mandatory mundane things like: “Try that pole over there,” or, “Can I have some more of your fliers?” and spoke only when necessary.

  I shouted, “These staples are not working!” 

  “Try this,” replied Angela, handing the duct tape over to me. “It works better.”

  It did. After all the fliers we had at the time were put up, we walked back, retracing our steps to the very first flier. I remember more than half being black-and-white, and the rest being colored-ink. It displayed Spot's snow-white, fur-covered torso and tail, earth-brown ears and spot on his little head, so well. He was half-Chihuahua and half-Jack Russell. 

By Thursday hope was beginning to fall by the wayside. There was no reply from anyone in the neighborhood. Had the fliers been blown away by the harsh winter winds? Maybe I should make more fliers. Or maybe I should…

  “Don't give up on him yet!” scolded Owin. He had sneaked up behind me and somehow knew what I was thinking. “He wouldn't give up on you if you were in his position.”

  “Of course he wouldn't,” I thought to myself. What was I thinking?

  That night I had ran out. I kept sprinting through all the tar of the roads and the cement of the sidewalks with only one thought on my mind: find Spot. Will I be successful? I had no idea, but I had to try. If I had not done so, how could I have ever called myself his owner ever again? So I ran. Past pedestrians, past houses, past the silhouettes of pedestrians and the silhouettes of houses – I ran. But, as the shadows gained more depth and the light lost its luster I grew puzzled. I had gazed at the street signs and realized that their names were not of any familiarity to me. Where was I?

  I had attempted to retrace my steps. I went through intersections between houses that led to middle areas with playgrounds and/or a field. I had ran across intersections between streets that led to new signs, which led to more doubt. The moon and the stars offered some form of hope through its iridescence, but the night was constantly by my side. I began to contemplate, “How long has it been? How long will it be?”

  If Spot was there I wish he would have shown himself. But of course, he had not.

  My fingers began shaking, and my breathing grew laborious. I kept turning a dead end or ending up in an oblique place, dead center in the ghost town (for no one was out).

  I eventually had serendipitously made my way back home; I came upon signs that were luckily of some semblance to me. I took a deep breath as I clenched the handle of the door, and I released a sigh of relief as the door gave way. I was immediately confronted.

  “Where did you go?” demanded my Dad.

  “I- I had just-”

  “Mom went looking for you after you left! Do you even know how dangerous it is to be out at night in this neighborhood?”

  I had known. I was careless and unwise, but I had went anyway, and I do not regret it one bit.

  My Dad said, “Well, call Mom and tell her to come back.” He heaved a great sigh.

  I had grabbed the phone and dialed the numbers in. Afterwards, I spoke with my Mom and I settled the situation by apologizing profusely.

  It seemed as though Spot would never return.

  When Friday came around I reminisced about the first time Spot had disappeared. In that particular time, Spot was abducted by some people in the area. We had never figured out whom had stolen him, but the police ended up finding him after we had contacted them. The only peculiarity was the fact that his collar was missing.

  I had pondered, “Surely this is not the same situation as before. Spot would definitely turn up.”

  After school, my mom drove me to my friend's house. On the way there, in the middle of the highway, my Mom had received a phone call. I thought nothing of it; I mean it was only a call. (And yes, you should not use your phone while driving.) Nevertheless, it did seem somewhat urgent.

  “Really? Okay, I see.” replied my Mom, shutting her phone.

  She looked at me through the rear-view mirror and said, “Eugene.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well...”

  Spit it out already!

  “Spot's been found!”

  My mouth splayed ajar, and my thoughts turned a blank. It seemed as though her words were distant, far beyond my grasp, like a person attempting to conceive another's utterance as they are conversing to one another in the midst of a subway submergence.

  “They said a lady found him by the United Methodist Church!”

  My senses refreshed, my doubts vanished, and a smile brushed up on my face.