Two labs, a wedgie and a jackass.

So the dogs, Maggie and Seamus, escaped this morning around quarter after eight. Carefully utilizing the woodpile as a platform, which to hop the fence, they began their quest for freedom. I can't blame them. It must get kind of boring being them. Same thing everyday. Play, food and sleep. I can only hope that bloodlust took over their minds and took them to that dark place in their heads, like the Hounds of the Monkeyvilles, seeking the thrill of the hunt. As today is my youngest son's birthday, above the fold on today's D&C classifieds, the thought of him returning home from school to a dogless castle was less than appealing.

Pissed and searching the neighborhood for hours, I had to abandon the effort to create an ice cream cake fit for a king. Upon completion and redepositing the creamy goodness back into the freezer, the search resumed. Thinking like a lab, I stopped by all the bodies of water that may have lured them for a swim. My mind exhausted and neck tweeked from checking the passing backyards, I rounded a corner in the neighborhood to find the fuzz, leash in hand, looking for my pups.

"Pardon me, Officer. You wouldn't happen to be looking for two labs would you?"

"Yes," responded the public servant. My tax dollars at work and I'm in the front row.

Fuckers. They've been near the house all day, intentionally eluding me, like a twisted game to see if the vein in my temple bursts. Bloodlust, I knew it. I was right after all.

Seamus was lounging in the back of the squad car while from behind a house came the dog catcher, pardon me, Animal Control Officer. He was sweaty and looked pissed. More so than me, I don't have a shiny badge either.

"I need to see their dog licenses," he said in a manner as if to imply that I carry them in my wallet.

It was at this point, I realized that the $7.50 I pay each year was to spring them from the clutches of The Man. I needed to get the paperwork from the house to place the evil hounds back in my charge. I flew home and went right to the file cabinet, third drawer down, under M, for The Man.

Papers in tow I flashed my civically responsible red tape before him and was let off with a warning.

Me? What the fuck did I do?

"What happened?", he said, with a bead of sweat flinging dangerously close to my nose, nostrils flared.

I couldn't tell him the truth. Surely, he would never believe it was actually a game designed to destroy me. I gave him the woodpile story as a coverup.

Earlier, convinced they were gone for good or splattered about 590, I had begun to search for photographs while the ice cream was melting, to design the best Lost Dog poster, perhaps in the Russian Contructivist motif, cash fuckin' money reward and all.

I found this video, shot by my oldest son.

All is well.