Izzy Loses Us

OK, so last time I was freaking out over Izzy eating a discarded hamburger. Turns out that little escapade was only a warm up for the freak out that happened yesterday at my mother-in-law’s.

Bruce, Izzy, and I were visiting my mother-in-law and hanging out in the backyard enjoying the grass, the birds, the sun, and her next door neighbor making a ton of noise doing construction on his house over Labor Day weekend. We rigged the yard with makeshift barriers at the sides of the house to keep Izzy from leaving the backyard. And I was keeping an eye on her from the patio. Or at least I thought I was. Mostly I was commenting on how lovely it was for Izzy to be able to have the freedom to explore on her own without being attached to a leash or without me having to hover over her. And then—I swear—no sooner did I make that stupid comment, than I realized that my dog was NOWHERE in sight.

My worst nightmare became a reality. My dog was gone.

I ran out to the front of the house and called her.

"Izzy! Izzy! Izzy, come! Izzy!"

My little dog, yes the one with really good recall, the one with titles and ribbons, the one known for swift responses to commands and cues was not responding to her name. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where could she have gone? She couldn't be far, right? I had just seen her, for crying out loud. As I looked up and down my mother-in-law's street, I realized that here on suburban Long Island there were a million places Izzy could be. If she ran into someone's back yard, and then suddenly another yard, and another, she could quickly be blocks away. Or she could be trapped in a yard with an unfriendly dog. Or she could have run into a street and gotten hit by a car. Or some child could have seen the cute little doggy with the waggly tail and picked her up and brought her inside. Or she could be following her nose and chasing a squirrel or a cat into some wooded area. . . Suddenly Glen Cove turned into an impenetrable maze of houses, yards, and streets. Where to start looking first? My stomach dropped. And then clenched. And then rose up to my mouth, and I had to work really hard to keep from throwing up.

Bruce took one direction and I took another. We ran, yelling her name at the top of our lungs (Important note: Name your dog something easy to yell constantly and loudly. "Izzy," it turns out, happens to be a great name to scream out every second on the second.).

Gloria, Bruce's mom, stayed in the backyard. After my run down the street, I returned to the backyard to check in. No dog. As I headed out again, to take a different path around the neighborhood a million thoughts flooded in. The very real possibility of having to leave without Izzy started to sink in. I might be going home without her. I was imagining the long drive back to the city with her, the first night being home, knowing that she was lost on Long Island, not knowing if she was OK. . . How could I have let this happen?

After what felt like hours of running up and down Glen Cove streets (although Bruce swears this whole thing took less than ten minutes), I turned the corner to head back to the house. And down at the end of the block, I saw Bruce out in the middle of the street, waving his arms.

"I found her!"

I ran inside and smothered Izzy with hugs and kisses. She responded by bounding around the living room and leaping in the air. At one point she took an incredibly high, spirited leap off the stairs and just missed slamming her head into the wall by millimeters. Great. I was worried that my lost dog was lying somewhere dead, and here Bruce finds her, and she’s so worked up she ends up killing herself. She must have been picking up on the general atmosphere of what I can only describe as aggressive relief, and was running around to try to shake off the nervous energy around her.

"Where was she?" I asked him, "Where did you find her?"

"She was at the back door," Bruce said. “She was just standing on the stoop, looking inside. It was like she was wondering where the hell we all went."

And then he said, wait for it—wait for it—

"Jess, I don't think she ever left the backyard."

OH. MY. GOD. Maybe we didn't lose the dog after all. The dog lost us!

Who knows if Izzy went on a little sightseeing trip by herself, or if she never left the property, either way, we were lucky; the three of us all went home together. Izzy has tags, and a microchip, so hopefully if she did ever become separated from us, some kind soul would contact us. But meanwhile, all’s well that end’s well, and we three are very lucky. And we know it. Oh, yeah. And Izzy will NEVER be off leash again.