It was Memorial day again—the second since he had been single. He supposed that it was like any other Memorial Day, but at the same time, it was a little different. He had planned no barbecues or picnics or excursions to the beach. On Saturday, his dogs had gotten out of his big back yard and wandered off to explore the much bigger world beyond the gate. He discovered that they were gone around dusk when he came home from a long afternoon of setting up a new location for his bees. He drove around in the fading light, confident that within a few blocks of home he would find the big shepherd mix and her scrappy little Shropshire terrier buddy sniffing bushes in someone’s front yard. His gate was broken, and he had run this drill with the dogs several times over the past year or so. But he didn’t find the dogs. They had escaped long enough before his return to have time to make their way out of the neighborhood—perhaps down to the creek bed on the edge of town, or off into another neighborhood. Thoughts of busy streets and foul play and dog catchers kept him from sleeping soundly that night.
Sunday he drove around some more, looking in vain for the dogs. They should be hungry by now and he had hoped they would show up during the night. Now he was truly concerned for their survival. He was most worried about the little one, who would not have gone far from home without his bigger friend to provide the carefree abandon necessary to get him into really serious trouble. Everything would probably be OK if they managed not to get separated and if they stayed out of traffic. He wasn’t confident on either point.
Finally, he gave in and went home. The mutts were gone. He would not bring them back by driving aimlessly around town.
The kids were planning an impromptu swimming party, and were working diligently at the tasks he had assigned them as preconditions for the party. The yard and house were getting more attention than he had been able to muster in quite a while. Late in the afternoon, half a dozen teenagers arrived with snacks and cell phones and cameras and swim suits and the party was on. He had little to do with the preparations and only felt obliged to be present and hospitable. The kids had planned it and neither expected nor wanted too much involvement from him. He barbecued some chicken that had been tucked away in the back of the freezer and needed to be used. It kept him busy and outdoors but without being too intrusive of the kids’ party and their space. As the afternoon and evening wore on, he found himself watching the street for the return of the wayward canines. They never came.
Memorial Day started quietly and still without dogs. The kids slept late, having moved the party from the pool to the movie theater after dark. He got up at dawn to move his hives to their new location before the field bees started foraging, and was home with a pot of coffee by nine o’clock. It had been long enough now that Animal Control might have picked the dogs up, so he picked up the phone. The only number in the book was for a county office in Morgan Hill, twelve miles to the north. The shelter was at a different location without a phone listing and he suspected that the office location would be vacant for the holiday.
As humans are inclined to do, he turned to a familiar solution, even though he thought it to be an unlikely one. The Gilroy Police dispatcher had called him dozens of times in the past three or four years to pick up honeybee swarms that citizens had called in to the 911 operator, and he knew the dispatch number from memory. He would call just to see if they knew who the right agency was, and how to reach them on a holiday. The police department certainly would know, and were many swarm calls in his debt.
Tina answered the phone, and to his surprise, she thought she knew his dogs. She sent an officer back to the kennel in the back parking lot at the station to confirm their description, and fifteen minutes later he was at the station getting the jailbirds released on his own recognizance. It was really good to have them back. He didn’t realize how fond he was of those dogs until they were crowded into the passenger seat of the Honda next to him, shedding on the seat and smearing their wet noses and drooling mouths against the windows and dashboard. They carried themselves with an enviable innocent nonchalance and carefree enthusiasm even though they had been caught red-handed and spent 2 nights in jail. When they got home, he fixed the gate.
He spent most of the rest of the day with his daughter, shopping for clothes for her and having lunch at Chevy’s and seeing a matinee of the latest Dennis Quaid movie. It was very good to spend the day with her and to know that the gate was secure and the dogs were safe. And so, this Memorial Day turned out to be just like any other—a vivid reminder of the fragile grasp we have on what we most take for granted—a tender moment to take time for those about whom we care most while we still have them with us.
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