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Um, yeah. I still need to get my dogs microchipped. On Sunday I almost had new tags with our new address and phone number made for them but decided to wait for ... what? For impending hound tragedy so I could save money by only having to buy one tag?

Something this morning told me that I needed to take a look out the kitchen window and make sure the dogs were fine. I didn't see either of them. When I went outside, Chloe the Basset came running to me, in the yard just as she was supposed to be. She had that Lassiesque "Timmy's in the well and I have to show you" look about her as she ran across the yard to one of the broken pickets, which had been shoved aside. Then she turned to me and woofed, "That stupid nard Murphy busted out and went that-a-way! Gimme a treat!"

Thus, the grabbing of the pee-soaked shoeless kid by her braless, pajamaed mother. I didn't want to haul Clara Jane around the neighborhood on foot because I knew we needed to move fast. We live on a four-lane street. The yard Murphy had busted into opens directly into a driveway, which empties onto Main Street.

I somehow stifled the urge to call B. at work and tell him to get his ass home so he can scrape our dog off the street and explain Doggie Heaven to our kid.

Several trips up and down Main and the side streets, and I spotted a team of roofers a block from my house. At first they hadn't seen her, but on my next pass by, they flagged me down and led me to where they'd last seen her. Since it was on our block, I decided to go home, grab some shoes for Clara Jane, and work on foot.

As I pulled up to our curb, Murphy came wandering into our front yard, dazed, panting, and terrified. This is the dog who's afraid of the water dish, mind you. This is the dog I've often commented is too stupid to be alive. And yet, she somehow found her way home.

Why yes, after B. got home from work, he went directly to our neighborhood hardware store to buy stuff to fix the fence, followed by a trip to the neighborhood deli to buy a shitload of fried chicken livers because after I've bralessly chased my stupid dog with my pee-soaked, barefoot three-year-old and a team of Mexican roofers, you can guaran-damn-tee I will not be making dinner, or my own coffee. As soon as I got Murphy into the house, it was off to the drive-thru coffee house. Mama needed a latte. Bad. Baby needed a scone. And those roofers needed some fresh-baked giant muffins, after having to put me with me and my unfettered, not-so-fresh giant muffins flopping down the alley, all in the name of a stupid little dog, who's been sleeping on the couch all day.