Dog as escape artist

"Hello. Do you have a dog? Well, he's right here in front of my house."

Shit…

A brick mason came by the house yesterday morning to do an estimate for the landlord. Aside from waking me up from a dead sleep (he wasn't supposed to do that) he apparently failed to secure the back gate after he left. I checked the gate, but I was half awake and it was raining, so I obviously missed the fact it wasn't closed properly.

I go on my merry way to the hell that work turned into, and about 6:10, I get a call from a guy on my cell, asking if I had a dog, and did I know he escaped?

Me: He's in front of your house?
Him: Yeah… he was limping a little bit, so I wanted to take a look at him.
Me: Is he wearing a blue bandanna?
Him: Yup.
Me: Oh shit.

So this guy, whose name was Brandon, said he'd bring the dog back to the house and make sure the gate was shut tight. I guess the dog headed west down our street, then turned left and went up the hill. I don't even want to think about what would've happened if this guy hadn't found Captain Dumbass. He's not really a smart dog, and I can imagine all kinds of horrible things happening if he got loose in traffic.

I got to a stopping point at work and hauled ass back here, put the dog in the house and hauled ass back to the office. I wish I had been able to just stay here, since work was such a joy last night. But oh well. I felt like I had to come back and make sure Roscoe was OK. I've got a lot invested in him — financially and emotionally. He's my bud. I can't let anything happen to the PooDawg, despite the fact I make fun of him and complain about the way he smells… That dog and I have been through some tough times, or rather, I've been through some tough times, and he's been there, just being himself.

Maybe he didn't like the bandanna (which was leftover from the trip to the vet Thursday). But hell if I'm going to take it off at this point.