4 Runaway

Compact houses sprouted from red farm dirt like some giant domino creation had fallen, scattering dwellings in a curious pattern. The active adult development enticed residents of nearby states and longtime local Charlotteans alike.
After slogging through five states in fifteen years I’d hoped we’d settle and find camaraderie. Yet Charlotte CrossRoads, newly established at the city’s edge, repeatedly failed to evoke a sense of belonging. Admittedly my friendship seeking skills were rusty. Perhaps isolation was unavoidable among strangers with nothing in common except re-imagining retirement as adult summer camp. A beautiful campus but resident events never made meeting others easy. Too raucous, too crowded, too strenuous, too sedentary – none of it conducive to connecting with potential friends.
Sunday morning dawned bright after days of rain. For once, the Observer wasn’t drenched or run aground in the gutter at the bottom of the hill. We sipped coffee and shared croissants while perusing stories. Slender trees swaying in the wind provided soothing views from the back windows, yet we routinely took coffee in front, gazing at walkers, both dog and power, and puzzling about one neighbor’s daily ritual, leaving at precisely 8:15 and shortly returning.
“Did you see that?” I yelped suddenly. My spouse looked up from the front page.
“What?” he replied, clearly annoyed.
“It’s Rosie!” I shouted, bolting from my chair. We fumbled with the lock and spilled outside. A squat Black Lab stood; nose buried in some pungent smell. Somehow Rosie, the vociferous canine next door had either unlocked the gate, or cleared the fence’s black iron spikes in some Herculean effort. With no owners in sight, twenty years of rescuing greyhounds took over, and I called out in my best ‘dinner time’ voice.
“Rosie, here girl!” She swiveled her head to fix the source of this new curiosity. The dog scarpered into the street while I held my breath – I hadn’t looked for vehicles. She cleared the pavement and dashed towards our open door. I caught her collar as she passed and closed the door to avoid a repeat escape. Rosie explored the fascinating new territory as I lurched from door to door, sealing off carpeted rooms from destruction.
“I’ll take her outside; you text the neighbors” Said my bathrobe bedecked spouse. He took her into the screened porch.
Fortunately, I’d turned on my phone, which I don’t always do early on Sunday. I found the number and messaged, but what if their phone wasn’t on? Shifting tactics, I exchanged robe for sweatshirt, and made my way next door in slippers and pajamas. Loud chimes sounded and boisterous barking started immediately. Three dogs raced toward the sound. Wait, three dogs? Was that a Black Lab in the pack now hurling themselves at the door? My clearly drowsy neighbors answered, I apologized. Did they know other owners of black labs? Yes, but not by name.
“Plan B.” I shouted to my husband, now struggling to contain our rambunctious visitor.
“I’m afraid she’ll bust the screen!”
“Bring her in then, whoever she is” I told him.
“Wait, what?”
“It’s not Rosie. What in blazes do we do now?”
“Facebook.” He said confidently.
He located our community page as I corralled not-Rosie in the room with me. Vigorous sniffing resumed, but she couldn’t damage much. Hubby returned with an announcement.
“Someone already posted they lost a dog.”
Before he could finish, I’d again jumped out of my seat. Shoving past him, I mashed my cheek against the window for a better view. A car braked its way down the hill, already past our house. For the second time I ripped open the door and pranced street ward, losing a slipper. My best two-fingered whistle failed to stop the driver, as did my enthusiastic arm flapping. My husband joined in, doing me one better by loping down the hill in his bathrobe. Minutes later, the driver eased to our curb. Shaken but grateful, the woman guided her canine into the rear, explaining she moved in three weeks ago. In the few minutes since her furry escape artist broke free, one neighbor posted the crisis on social media while a second was out in another car also searching.
We returned to cold mugs of coffee, satisfied with our assist. People and neighborhoods change but some principles are durable; rescue lost dogs and children at whatever cost. I still feel unmoored and searching for my forever home, but maybe knowing that this community looks out for its own is enough for now.