L-O-S-T

She's not very clever, my mistress. Only half a pup still, herself. She wrestles the string onto me and off we go. I'm faster and stronger, so it's up to me to set the pace. I power forward and she totters behind me.

When we get to the right spot, she bends down to unclip the horrible thing from my collar, pleading, "Be good, please be good". I answer her with my eyes. I'm good at pleading puppy-dog eyes. I need to run like I need to breathe, and I bore holes in her head with my craving for it.

The moment I'm loose I go. And it's g l o r i o u s.

She can't catch me. She's too slow. I always know she's coming. I hear her clumsy steps, and she pants like she ran ten miles in the sun.

I'm wily. I tease; I stop to sniff and she jogs up to me. I glance back at her, and when she gets this close - off I go again! So funny. Leaving her far, far behind.

Sometimes, you know, I don't even wait for her to fetch the string, and do that dance with me where I pretend I can't possibly sit still to let her put it on. Sometimes I dig a hole, or slip out of a door, or climb a gate, or jump a fence... And then I run and run and run until my legs hurt. Then I run some more.

Sometimes, (not today, but sometimes) when I am all funned out, I let her catch me and put the string back on. When I'm tired, or feeling kind. Her exasperation hangs around her like a thick angry cloud. It pours off her and she stinks with it. So maybe I relent, standing wary, letting her approach. I watch her, waiting for the string, wondering if I'll get a scolding. Then, once we are attached again, I drag her home. Her parents say things like, "that was a long walk" and "you didn't lose him again, did you?" She pretends I was a goodboi.

Other times - like today - my paws are wings. I just fly further and further, until I can't see her anymore, and she can't see me. I keep going until I can't even smell her, and her voice is faint enough to ignore. I can forget her completely, forget everything, and just be my absolute selfiest self. Lose myself in all the smells and adventures the world has to offer.

Two-legs are such killjoys. When I'm lost, like now, there's no one to tell me, "don't chase that big rumbling thing, or that woolly thing, or that small furry thing, or that Two-leg on a two-wheel. Don't run that far, don't snap at that, No, Wait, Stay, Down, Blah, Blah, BLAH."

Usually - eventually - I get hungry or tired and I make my own way home. I know she can get back by herself, no trouble. Sometimes I get back first, sometimes not. There's been times I couldn't resist wagging up to another person to say hello and they grab me by the collar. Some are dull and slow. They let me wiggle free and I'm away again. Others hold me firm and wangle my return home. I've even done Porridj, because the wrong person caught me, and I had to spend a night away from home. Worth it, though. The man in the kennel gave me a biscuit, so I call that a win.

Whatever happens... whether I come home without her, or she without me, or a neighbour brings me back, or they have to collect me from the poo-leess stay shun... Her mum and dad know that I was not a goodboi. They snarl and snap at her. They tell her not to turn me loose. That I'm naughty, untrained, untrusted. They tell her she's Irry Sponsy Bull.

She hangs her head, her cheeks burn, sometimes tears threaten... but I have no shame at all. I grin around my flopping ham slice of a tongue. I can't help it. It's impossible to feel bad when my whole body is flooded with palpable happy from my terrific run. I'm tingling with it, it's in my blood and bones, and when it wears off... Well, then I need to get a hit of being lost again.

Today is a good day to be lost. I don't even know where she is anymore, and I don't care. It's like she doesn't exist. Nothing does. Everything is not important. All kinds of tantalising scents accost the tip of my nose, and I give in to them entirely, following wherever they trail. There's been rabbits. And squirrels.

Being "lost" is the best. I can go wherever. I can do anything I like. I don't have to think. I am all nose and paws. Unhindered, without her buzzing about somewhere far behind me, wailing for me to stop, come back, and all that. Like an especially annoying, loud, big flea.

I'm fond of her of course. And there's loyalty too, which is a different kind of string. But it's second to the trail in front of me, and the beat of my paws on the earth, following it. As vital as my heartbeat, and just as insistent.

They say I'm "lost", but I'm not. Not really. I know exactly where I am. I usually know where they are, as well. I know where home is. I could turn around and follow my own scent trail back precisely. If I wanted. But I don't want. I like being lost.

Anyway, they spell it wrong. It's not L-O-S-T. It's F-R-E-E.

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Quick Author's Note

Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment so it's easy for me to reciprocate.

Pay no attention to the writer behind the curtain: I wrote this for the Misplaced Challenge, which I will link to below.

I firmly believe we owe dogs a debt we will never be able to repay.

This one is almost completely autobiographical, except I'm not a dog. If I was, I think I would find the keys a bit trickier.

I got a dog when I was twelve, and he was the naughtiest little shi- rascal you've ever set your eyes on. This entire story is what I imagine he thought about our "walks". Not that he ever did much walking. He had one setting: run flat out like an absolute weapon, and don't stop for love nor money. He lived that way, at top speed, for 15 years until one day he keeled over and didn't get up again. It was his heart, in the end. Where he differs from this little dog, is that he never stopped until something stopped him. He was like a force of nature in himself. The furthest he managed to run was about ten miles, I think.

Here he is, the cheeky little turd who inspired the story:

He was a Cairn Terrier. I don't know if you know any terriers, but he was a quintessential one, all the way to his bones. All courage, all attitude, a wiry little bullet who had no idea how small he was.

The little horror tormented me just like the dog in this story tormented his mistress. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was very intelligent, and knew about 50 commands, and countless other words. He taught me how not to raise a dog. He knew how to lose himself well and truly. So this story is dedicated to his memory, and all those hours we spent running over hills and through forests.

He was also the inspiration for little Apollo. Maybe, whenever I write about a naughty little dog, a little bit of Max will be in there, looking over his shoulder and laughing at me, right before he f--ks off out of sight.