It was supposed to be a simple thing, puppy-sitting little Moet for a few days. I've been looking after other people's dogs and puppies for years, and apart from having to clean up some messes I've never had a mishap.
Moet had been to visit before he came to stay, and had a good look and sniff around the unit and the back yard. My yard isn't big, just a patio and a scrubby garden bed, imbued with years and years of dog wee, with shrubs to wee on, and the occasional possum or neighbourhood cat to sniff out.
I did have one escape artist previously, but Donny (cocker spaniel) only managed to squeeze himself into the neighbour's yard, through the little gap where the water mains taps are. He couldn't get back again, but he couldn't get out, either, so it was easy enough to retrieve him, and he never tried it again.
It never even crossed my mind that Moet would try to escape. And, worse, it never crossed my mind to go and check my fence was still fully secure. Of course, when I went out to try to work out where Moet could have escaped from, I could see that the garden bed had shrunk enough to allow egress in one section. I'd been complaining about how low the bed was getting, as it was now so sunken that I couldn't go near the edge of it, for fear of rolling into it and not being able to get out again. However, it didn't connect with the fence, or with Moet being such a little guy.
Part of my guilt also came from the fact that I chased him further away than he might have gone otherwise.
I realised he'd gone almost immediately. I was pottering in the laundry, just inside the back door, while Dexter and Moet were doing their bed-time wees and sniffs, and leaned out to check on him when he'd been out of my sight behind the door for a minute or so. He wasn't there.
I got as close as I ever get to running these days, when I went to get my wheelchair to go and pick him up. I'd assumed that it would be a simple thing, like going and fetching Freddy when he used to try to escape (although Fred is admittedly the worst escape artist, ever). I was in my 'chair and out the door in a couple of minutes, and when I got to the bottom of the ramp outside, I could see him, just a few metres away from me, on the path.
I called to him, he looked at me, he turned towards me, even came a few steps in my direction, then I moved a little towards him, and that's when he bolted away from me. Of course: he was scared of the wheelchair, as he'd not seen me in it. He'd sniffed it when he'd been inside, but it was stationary then, not charging towards him.....
By the time I thought to stop and stand up, he'd got too far away, and had already run across the road to get away from me. That was when I realised that I wasn't going to catch him, and when I called his parents.
I'd had Moet for TWO HOURS.
I called my friend Steve, to come and help me look. Moet's mum and dad were coming back to go looking, and I went back home to get my car - and to stop Dexter from his barking and howling at having been left home alone.
We all spent the next several hours walking or driving the streets, asking people if they'd seen a little dog running loose, and the only sighting I had reported to me was of a dog coming out of the end of my street and across the road again, possibly going that way.
I reported Moet as missing with the local council, the RSPCA, the Animal Emergency people (who cover my local vets out of hours), emailed my local vet as well, and then started sending his details to radio stations, and posting him on facebook and Twitter. Steve showed me a couple of websites where found dogs get listed, and was helpful in recommending courses of action, having helped another friend look for a lost dog before.
I don't know who I felt worse for, Moet or his parents.
Poor Moet, who was a timid little guy, and understandably a bit confused at having been left with me, Dexter and Freddy. He had been doing the usual "um, hello, I think there's been a mistake, I'm not supposed to be here" thing that most puppy sittees go through, but had started to settle down. I was so worried for him, out there in the dark, in a strange area, being scared. I was also worried at his propensity for running across roads, and spent the next three days having the horrors at him being hit by a car.
I was also devastated for his parents, who had entrusted Moet to me in good faith, but instead had to forego their weekend away, to search for their furbaby. That I had lost for them.
The next day, an extended search party was mobilised, flyers were posted and handed around, and Moet's photo and story was circulated through Twitter and Facebook. He was mentioned on the radio, and I mostly stayed awake for the next three days, checking the found dogs websites and social media updates, while imagining awful things happening to Moet, and my having to tell his parents about it.
Sensible people like Steve and my Mum told me that actually no news was good news, as a - gods forbid - dead dog would be reported to the Council, and they would identify him. It was more likely that he was hiding somewhere, scared.
While Moet was missing, I felt physically guilty. I had an ache in my solar plexus, and felt nauseated with worry and for the situation I'd caused. I felt guilty when I gave my furboys their dinners, thinking of Moet out there somewhere, hungry. I realised later that I didn't pat Dexter at all that first day of searching, I was so preoccupied with Moet, and I felt guilty about that, too.
In my world, there is no such thing as "just a dog". Dogs are members of the family, and I could hardly have felt worse if I'd lost a child.
When I got a phone call from Moet's mum on the evening of the third day, I knew it had to be News, of some sort. Being nervous of it being bad news, I fumbled the phone, missed the call, tried to call back, tried to text, and eventually got to speak to Moet's mum, who gave me the unspeakably good news that Moet had been found, safe and well.
My relief was profound. I've never been so scared, worried, anxious and guilt-ridden in my life, so hearing that the situation had been resolved without tragedy made me dizzy with relief.
While I will carry this experience around me for ever, I have been spared from having to carry around the injury or death of a dog that I was responsible for keeping safe and well.
It helps that Moet has a good story to go with his discovery. He was found under a priest's bed, next to a Catholic church (Moet having crossed - gulp - a main road). When his parents arrived at the house, Moet, who had kept himself out of reach under the bed, other than having a drink of water, appeared at the top of the stairs, in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. I like to imagine the scene accompanied by a chorus of seraphim and a little mystic glow about him as his parents look up at him! (My mother, who had sent out prayers at Mass, wasn't the least surprised that Moet took refuge in a church. In fact, I think she's taking some of the credit for his recovery!) The best part, though, was hearing that when he got home, Moet still had the energy and the inclination to bark at a possum in his yard, before crashing out in a little furry heap.
In another testament to the kindness and generosity of Dog People, Moet's mum and dad didn't berate me, they thanked me, for what I did to try to find Moet, and even came and gave me chocolates, after he'd been found. I did comment afterwards that I would have preferred to have been beaten with, well, not with sticks, as that would hurt, but perhaps a pool noodle.
So, all's well that ends well, but I'm not sure I'll ever feel I can undertake the responsibility of dog-sitting again. How could anyone trust me, when I lost one of my charges? I'm still reeling from the emotional turmoil of those three days, as well as catching up on the sleep I missed, and hope that I will eventually stop having flashes of what might have been.
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