A Blunder in the Burrs.

The crisp autumn air was cool and the warmth from the morning sun was welcome on my back. I used the last of the summers heat to my advantage, drying the indoor acrylic paint that I was applying in long smooth strokes with my brush. The long strips of trim were balanced on the sawhorses in the driveway. The smell of cut grass and drying autumn leaves mingled with the fumes from the acrylic paint. I was preoccupied and content with my task, paying little attention to the whereabouts of my two year old son, Jonah. A little chatterbox, he was a going concern. He always seemed to be underfoot, a noise with dirt on it. 

Where was that noise now? I hadn’t heard it in a little while. How long had I been lost in my thoughts for? 

“Jonah,” I called, expecting an immediate answer or, to hear slapping of little feet against the packed earth in our newly seeded backyard. “Jonah,” I called again, looking around. I could see most of our property from my position, but Jonah’s figure was nowhere to be seen. I sighed and put my paint brush in the tray, covering it with a plastic bag so as not to dry out. I would come back to it in a second. First, I had to check on Jonah. I thought he had been playing with his trucks nearby.

“Jonah,” I called a third time, a little louder, my voice carrying a hint of irritation in my tone. The little bugger, I thought. He’s probably gone inside the house and didn’t think to tell me. I wonder if he has to go to the bathroom?

Jonah had just recently been able to start turning doorknobs. He was not always successful, but I imagined that he had been able to gain entry and, like me, found himself preoccupied. I found the basement door closed, but that was of little concern. Doors were easier to close than they were to open.

“Jonah,” I called as I walked into my basement. No answer. I glanced into the open door to our downstairs bathroom thinking I would spy some little white legs and dirty feet dangling from the toilet seat. He was such a little monkey and fiercely independent, climbing on the toilet himself at times.

He wasn’t there. Odd, I thought.

“Jonah,” I called again, louder still. Now, I was getting upset. “Answer me you little turd,” I muttered under my breath. He was likely upstairs helping himself to a snack of whatever was within his reach in our pantry or in the fruit bowl that sat on our table. 

“Jonah,” I yelled, angry now at not being answered. 

He was not upstairs in the kitchen or the living room. Had he put himself down for a nap? I knew he was a heavy sleeper but he should have heard me by now. No. He was not curled up in his bed or on the couch or loveseat. “Where the hell are you?” I said. 

“Jonah, this isn’t funny. You better not be hiding on Mommy right now. Where are you?” I walked briskly to the front door that faced out toward the street and our driveway. Standing in the open doorway I scanned the two bare lots in front of our property. The grass was dried and sparse and the tall old pines offered little place to hide. I would have been able to see him if he were playing out there. 

Where the hell would he be that he wouldn’t hear me, let alone not answer?

My stomach lurched and my knees felt weak. 

The wading pool! 

I gripped the door frame to steady myself before bursting from it in a mad dash around my house. “Oh my god, oh my god! Please don’t be in the pool.” An image of Jonah lying face down in a few mere inches of water flashed through my mind. Arms extended at his sides, motionless, and floating in the blue, plastic pool that was only fifty feet away from where I had been painting, just out of sight. I dashed past the sawhorses and my right foot slid out to the side as I rounded the corner into my backyard collapsing onto my hands and knees. I looked towards the pool, ready to scream if I spotted the back of Jonah’s grey pullover or his mousy brown hair. I gasped for breath. An orange plastic boat bobbed in the water. Thank god! I looked skyward feeling the wave of relief wash over my body. Taking a deep breath, I got back to my feet, hands on my hips and slowly turned in a complete circle, pulse pounding in my head. Nearby, hammering from a construction site could be heard. Perhaps Jonah couldn’t hear me over that noise

“Jonah,” I yelled again, cupping my hands around my mouth, projecting my voice out toward the road. 

My gaze fell on the open gate between our property and that of my in-laws right next door. I ran through the gate and into the shop where my father in law was chatting with his friends.

“Marcel,” I asked out of breath, “have you seen Jonah? Has he been over here this morning?”

“No,” he said, surprised by my sudden burst through the door.

“I can’t find him,” my speech was hurried. The smiles on the men’s faces dropped and they stood staring at me. “I was painting and I didn’t notice that he left.”

“He’s not in the house?” Marcel asked.

“No, I checked. I have to keep looking.” Seized with fear I ran back through the gate and stood by the sawhorses where I had been painting when I lost track of my young child.

Where the hell could he be? Where would he have gone?

“Jonah! Jonah!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

The hammering continued. I tried to pace my shouts to fall in between the pauses from the impact of the hammers. Then I strained to hear if there were any answers. Would I be able to hear over the hammering? I could barely hear over my own heartbeat right now. My chest was heaving with anxiety and panic, but also with rage at the incessant pounding. Marcel and his friends came up behind me. 

“We’ll help you look for Jonah. Do you think he could go out on the road?” Marcel asked. 

Oh my god, what if he’s been hit by a car or abducted? I struggled to swallow the lump that had appeared in my throat.

“Yes, he probably could have made it that far by now,” I admitted, sickened by shame. If something happened to my baby it would be all my fault.

There were no fences yet in the front or back of our property. Our neighbors behind us didn’t have a fence around their yard either so Jonah could have access to two of the main roads in town. 

“You guys look out the front, down our driveway and I’ll look out the back,” I instructed as I jogged off into my backyard again. 

“Jonah! Jonah!” My throat hurt and my fear and anger mounted. 

“Shut up! Stop hammering, I’m trying to find my son,” I screamed in the direction of the incessant noise. I turned and took inventory of my yard. What am I not seeing? There must be some clue. What have I missed?

“Jonah!,” I yelled as l looked over the expanse of dirt that was our backyard. It was littered with hoses and sprinklers in an attempt to grow grass. Toy trucks were parked in the dirt near the doghouse. 

The doghouse! 

Where was Max? Our great big golden retriever was also missing. Were they together? In my haste to find Jonah I hadn’t realized that Max was also gone. I dared hope that if I could find Max, I would find my son. 

“Max! Max!,” I yelled, with renewed fervor. If Jonah couldn’t hear me perhaps Max would. Loyal and obedient, Max always came to us when we called. If Max came back to me, I could search in the direction he returned from and likely find his partner in crime. I left my backyard, jogging through the adjoining property, scanning the long grass and the road that I was nearing.

The arena was in view now. It was on the opposite side of the road, diagonal to our property line. Had Jonah come this far and realized that he could go and visit his father’s place of work? I felt a pang in my stomach. He would have had to cross the road. Would someone have seen him in time not to hit him? I ran faster. Praying not to see a lifeless form lying in the ditch, a splatter of colour on the pavement. 

“Jonah! Max!” Still no answer.

Reaching the road I screamed their names and looked back and forth along the length of grey asphalt. What if he’d been picked up by some passerby? If some demented predator had my son, he would be miles away by now. Breathing heavily, I looked at the arena. Do I run up and down the road or do I run to the arena and ask my husband, Mathieu, for help? Every second that I wasn’t yelling and scanning may be the difference of life and death.

I ran to the arena hoping to find Jonah with his Dad. I hoped my husband was reprimanding our young son for what he had just done, telling him about how Mommy would be worried and we should call home to let her know everything is alright. I ripped open the door and ran into Mathieu’s office only to find surprise in my husband's face. I was having trouble catching my breath.

“Jonah’s not here?” Fear replaced the surprise in his eyes. 

“I was painting and, ... and, I looked up and he, ...he was gone,” I stammered, out of breath, hot tears in my eyes. 

We ran out into the parking lot towards the road again. 

“Where have you looked?” My husband asked.

“He’s not in the house and your Dad is looking out towards the road in front of our property.” 

I looked back across the road. An undeveloped cul de sac was located just down the street. The overgrown grass was unruly and unkempt. If Jonah had reached the road and walked along it instead of crossing it, he and Max could have found this field of empty lots to play in. This would have provided my intrepid little explorer with quite an adventure.

“Max! Jonah!” My throat was raw and parched. I sprinted across the road and into the gravel lane that divided the lots. 

“Max is gone too?,” my husband asked, hot on my tail.

“Yes, I’m hoping they’re together.”

“Max! Jonah!,” Mathieu bellowed. I was so glad I had gone to get my husband. His strong, deep voice carried further than mine.

Come on Jonah, answer us.

The grass in the lots surrounding us was up to my waist or higher. How would I be able to see my son or my dog in this thick mess? I held my breath. Did I hear something?

“Max! Jonah!,” Mathieu called again. 

There it was again. A small, indecipherable little whimper.

“Wait!,” I said to my husband as I ran in the direction of the sound. “Jonah! Jonah! Where are you?” I yelled, running into the tall grass. I fought to push my feet through the tangled mess of long dried strands mixed with the occasional plant of dried burrs. I stopped and held my breath, listening for my son's voice. I heard crying. It was Jonah’s crying.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I pushed further into the wild and untamed field, frantic to reach my son. His sobs were closer now. I parted the grasses with my arms and kicked hard through the matted blades and stems. I felt the scratching of burrs and dried stalks against my ankles and shins. I could see that there was a slight depression in the weeds just ahead of me, a crop circle of sorts. And then I saw him. Max was nearly camouflaged against the dried golden husks. His dark brown eyes and nose and pink tongue caught my eye. He sat proudly beside my little boy who was hugging his legs to him as he shuddered and cried.

“Jonah,” I yelled excitedly. He looked up at me. Tears had traced little brown streaks over his dirty, flushed face. “I found him! Mathieu! He’s here!,” I yelled back over my shoulder.

“Jonah, Jonah, are you okay?” I tore through the woven wall of grasses surrounding my son and his faithful companion. I dropped to my knees and pulled Jonah into me, hugging him. Jonah had reached this thicket of tall grass, along with his trusted friend, Max, before becoming ensnared by a multitude of burrs. He could no longer move and could not see above the mass of tall dry stems that encircled him and kept him prisoner. Max, quite capable of leaving the unpleasant mess of burrs and desperate sobs, had remained at his little master’s side. Mathieu reached us and knelt behind me, hugging both Jonah and I. 

A warm tongue swiped the back of my hand. Max nudged my arm, wanting some of the affection. I looked at him now over the top of my son’s head, silently praising and thanking him for standing sentinel over my distraught boy. Wow, dogs truly are man's best friend, I thought.