boatload of trouble

While E and I were standing in our living room listening to the exterminator tell us bowhunting stories, the doorbell rang. It was our neighbor, holding a makeshift bungee cord leash, attached to which was our asshole dog, Bob.

At the end of last week, presumably when the garbage truck roared through the back alley, he broke planks off the fence, opened the gate, and got out with Mama Bear (aka Cuppycakes), the black shepherd mix.

This time, he apparently dug under the corner of the gate of the back fence, and ran around the neighborhood.

I honestly have no idea how we get our dogs back. They’ve only gotten out a handful of times, but somehow we maintain the full head count and no one goes missing. If I were to guess, I would say it’s some favored reciprocation the universe has granted us for all the good deeds we’ve done for the other dogs in our neighborhood. I’ve chased down anything with a collar, taken dogs in and called owners for pickup. It must be why ours show up back at our doorstep, unharmed and probably full of tales to tell the others.