The Damn Dog (or how I learned a new respect for time well spent)

The Dog ran away. He ran away on the day the Hubs and I were to meet my mother and her husband in the city for dinner. We had been planning this for months. This is the one time all year my mother will be in New York. And the damn Dog runs away. Before all this happened, I was outside pruning an out-of-control hydrangea bush. Checking the time, I realized I was going to miss my train into the city if I didn't move my ass. So I rushed inside to take a shower. I hear my MIL calling for The Dog. Apparently he had wandered off while I was otherwise disposed with the friggin bush. Idiot Dog, I thought, figuring he would come running, as he always does. I hopped into the shower, ransacked my closet looking for something to wear. It is 75 degrees outside, and I have nothing that will fit my post-pregnancy body (helloooooo hips!) since I haven't been shopping in more than 17 months. I actually went into the attic in an attempt to find something, anything that will fit. So now, I am cutting it really close. And I still have to dry my hair and at least make an attempt at makeup. As is the norm for me, I slam myself together, grab the keys, and run out the door. Get to the train station, get a ticket as the train is pulling up. I just make it. Yay!!

Oh shit, The Dog. I called my MIL, at home watching the Bebe. Said devil Dog has not returned. Shit shit shit shit shit. I text the Hubs to let him know. He is already in the city, stuck in midtown, having left for the restaurant immediately after work. He begins to have a conniption/panic attack/freak out/bout of nausea. Shit shit shit. He is unable to return home, since it is rush hour and he is in Manhattan. I am on the train. Now, I am not going to dinner when the Husband is having a freak out. That just begs huge blowup in front of my Mom at a fancy restaurant. I tell him to go on without me, and I get off at the transfer station, and hop the first train back.

Home. Change clothes. Angry beyond belief, yet concerned for The Dog's well-being. Take The Other Dog with me on the great search. I get about 100 yards from the house, calling, and a boy yells, "Hey, you looking for a dog?". The Damn Dog has been camped on the neighbor's deck for hours. The neighbor's! They had been taking care of him. The daughter had even slapped a leash on him and paraded him around the neighborhood, looking for his owner. They were in love with him. They had even considered adopting The Dog if they didn't find his owner. At that point, having gotten over the immense relief at finding him, I would have been happy to comply.

My night was ruined. No fancy dinner in the city at my favorite Mexican restaurant. No spending time with my mom.

But, as I mused later, it was really my own fault. It took me just 5 fucking minutes to find him. If I hadn't been so rushed, if I had spent those 5 minutes before I left, I would have just been a little late to dinner, instead of missing it entirely.

Just 5 minutes, and my evening would have ended differently. And this is how I learned that every second counts.