It happened late at night as he pretended to go out for one last pee.
Maybe he'd had enough of Dax,
maybe it was because I'm overprotective and he needed some alone time.
He's jumped the fence a handful of times before. Our routine consists of my driving around the countryside for half an hour, to find him at my door upon my return.
This time, I used up half a tank of gas in my truck wandering further afield looking for him. I quit at midnight, spent 4 hours sniveling and resumed driving before dawn.
I sent a mayday out to the neighbors and went to the post office to leave word with our letter carrier to call me if she sees him. That's where I learned that two days prior, the poo on your shoe people who live like fleas on the next road had shot someone's dog for kicks. The dog had managed to crawl home to die. My stomach churned when I realized I had heard the shot and the cries.
By the next night, I'd fretted my day away thinking he was shot and injured in the woods, about to die of exposure on the coldest night of the year, or he was enroute to a dog fighting camp. I'd left the gates open for him, bed and food. Thinking it was hopeless, I drove the roads again and went to bed.
5 AM, there's a bark at the door!
The Cheez came home.... stinking of Febreeze and dirty old Redneck couch. Someone had taken him in, never bothering to call the number on his collar, nor capable (thankfully) of containing him.
The solid fence has been reinforced with an underground dog fence, he's going to learn not to toy with my emotions...
A vagabond or part of this family, can't have it both ways, I think he's made the right choice.
