Lost
The room held feelings of family. Couches were arranged caddie corner to the television. Agreements, disputes, and rough-housing all occurred in this small area of the house.

Lying on the carpet, I was positioned comfortably on my side. My brother was grooming me, eagerly licking my ear. I’m not certain that he ever found anything but it felt great!
I suddenly felt the urge to water the grass as my body entered a frenzied state of motion, and I jumped from the couch. Shaking, I ran to the door, panicking. I looked back towards my family.
Tucked closely to my mother’s chest was a small bundle, the recipient of all the attention my parent’s doled out. It reminded me of the bulging, white grubs I found in the dirt; Squishy, fat, and chewy.
I took the next step in my ways-to-communicate-to-my-parents-that-I-need-to-pee running to my mom. and staring at her. No noise. Just staring. She’d get it; and, if not, well, the carpet wasn’t such a bad alternative to the grass.
The grub was now vertical, held close, with his chest to my mother’s shoulder, his face peaking over. Grub jerked his head around and stared at me. My mother followed his eyes. As her eyes fell on me, they opened wide in acknowledgement to my urgency. She talked to me and my 4-legged siblings, apologizing, “Sorry, guys. Let’s go outside.”
Yes! I bolted to the door. I waited for an opening, my weight entirely on my back legs with my front legs in the air. I was a loaded spring ready to expand rapidly in a quick release of energy through the door.
The door opened, and I immediately accelerated to top speed, not breaking pace, as I leaped down the porch steps onto the lawn. I sped towards the middle of the yard sprinting at trees and cutting at the last moment to avoid collision. I turned back to the house and continued my tremendous stride, turning near the entrance and running a parallel circle around the perimeter of the house.
Suddenly, I remembered I had to pee. I squatted. (Yes, I’m a male and yes, I squat). As I was finishing…COW! COW! COWS!
Initially, I was just curious. As soon as I was finished peeing, I playfully pranced around the cows, yapping for their attention. My brother soon joined me, but he was rather aggressive about it, running directly at the herd, posturing out his chest as a show of force. My playfulness transformed to hostility, as I feed off my brother’s negative energy.
Suddenly, the larger of the herd made a wall in front of a calf, plodding towards us. We furiously responded, becoming bolder with each pass at the herd, nipping at their hooves. On the next turn, I sprinted back towards the herd to take a bite, when a hoof tromped down within an inch of my head, leaving me dazed from the certainty that I was to die.
I ran away at a frenzied stride.
“Shit!” I shouted as I struggled with the Michelin-man baby in my grasp. I watched as the dogs sprinted after the bovine herd and hurried inside to find a safe space for my son. I placed him in the jumper and made sure he was happy. He smiled ear-to-ear to reassure me. I smiled back, gave him a kiss, and left the room. I walked out of the house, determined to beat Jesus into those dogs.
Outside, the herd was meandering around, clearly anxious. The dogs were out of sight. I walked frantically around the yard, front then back, with no results.
“Mosby! Dexter!”
I screamed their names for several minutes with no luck. I walked back into the house to check on the little man. Still smiling. I walked out the door, repeatedly calling out my dogs’ names. As I repeated my steps to the backyard, Dexter bolted from the back pasture in my direction, tongue hanging from his mouth, carefree and oblivious to my worries.
“You shit head! Where the hell is your brother,” I questioned Dexter. He gleefully wagged his tail in reply. Ugh!
I walked back into the house. At this point, my mother was up and discussing matters of life with my son. I asked her to hang out with my cheerful boy, as I grabbed my keys and headed out the door to my vehicle.
For the next hour, I drove at a furious speed up and down the side rows past enormous farm houses and dilapidated trailer homes. When I lived in the city, houses were a product of their neighborhood. In smaller rural communities and countryside, the contrast between homes, adjacent to each other, always amazed me. Meth lab university next to picket-fenced, farm-raised wealth.
The drive through the corn fields and cow pastures was fruitless. Mosby was no where to be seen.
As I frantically ran away from the cows, I had little thought of anything but to run. I kept running as I passed the yard boundary. The wind created by my furious speed glued my ears back against my scalp. My tongue was hanging loosely from my mouth, waving, like an American flag in a strong breeze.
My family looked for Mosby through the end of the week. We’re still looking. We posted to Facebook and were informed of a few dead-end leads. A dog was spotted along the interstate heading north. A gentleman was spotted with a dog at a nearby hotel. Dead-ends.
We assume that Mosby was picked up. A boxer is a popular breed in our area and he was a good-looking, toned boxer. His personality was endearing. Though he was finicky, his friendly, well-natured manner and beautiful coat would be beautiful in the eyes of a dog-thieving passerby.
Unfortunately, Mosby was not well. Within the last two years, he had a number of seizures. The vets, including a neurologist, had told us that his breed was susceptible to brain tumors, the most likely cause of his seizures. An expensive MRI would have confirmed or denied the vets’ suspicions, but with his age and the average lifespan of his breed, treatments such as radiation and chemo would have slightly prolonged the inevitable. So we had treated the symptoms, the seizures, forcing pills down his throat, twice daily.
Four dogs in the mix was a special sort of chaos.
My feelings of Mosby’s loss are ambivalent. When he started having the seizures, he transformed into another being. His demeanor transformed from cuddly and loving into finicky and anxious. In some ways, the Mosby we grew to love died a couple of years ago.
On top of that, we have a new baby to nurture, and four dogs in the mix was a special sort of chaos.
Our hope is for Mosby to be in the home of a loving family with attentive young children to feed his desire to play and run.
Mosby, we love you. Run free to a home with a loving family and attentive young children to feed your playful desires. Run free of your pain and suffering. Run free.

