Miracle on Woods Avenue

A tiny, little miracle happened yesterday, right here on Woods Avenue.  And by "tiny," I am being literal, because this miracle weighed 5 or 6 pounds, tops.  

(Yes, I know...it would be a miracle if I gave birth, at age 51.  And if the baby were born at home.  And if it only weighed 5 or 6 pounds.  None of these scenarios, however, took place.  Thank heavens).

This miracle's name is Lily, a bi-colored dachshund who hales from South Dakota.  Yes, apparently some South Dakotans manage to look beyond their stony presidential profiles, their buffalo in the buttes, and their steamy hot springs and actually find a reason to cross the border.  I'm pretty sure Lily's reason (and let's be honest, here--someone else made the decision for her) had more to do with vacationing human beings than with the lure of a nearly-finished Pinnacle Arena.  

Regardless, Lily had taken up temporary residence on Woods Avenue, and I know of no better canine B&B than my neighbor's home, a place resplendent with happy hounds anchored on stubby, Teutonic legs. 

Still, there was that problematic gap between the fence and the ground--no bigger than an all-star wrestler's hand--left there by imperfect workmen who forgot to check their work twice before digging in.  And, if you happen to weigh 5 or 6 pounds (a weight I can barely recall myself), that gap must have seemed as big as the Grand Canyon, and rife with exotic possibilities.

Ah, but back to the miracle.  Long story slightly shorter, Lily--who, I will remind you, did not call Woods Avenue or even Lincoln, Nebraska "home"-- was pulled by the irresistible gravitational force of the Pretty-Great Beyond and suddenly found herself "out there," with nothing more than her collar and a fading memory of kibbles and chew toys.

A day or two later, a panic-laced yet well-lettered "MISSING DACHSHUND" sign appeared, nailed to a Locust tree. (Is there anything sadder than a hand-written "missing" sign, its letters still damp with fear and regret?)  Despite an earlier sighting of said bi-colored hound, at that time wandering precariously close to the death trap known as "O" Street, in our private thoughts, most neighbors held out little hope that Lily, who had never considered Woods Avenue "home," would ever return to the quaint, well-painted bungalow just up the street. 

Little did we know.

Ten minutes late for a swim party, I was anxious to make up for lost time when I headed out for the pool yesterday afternoon.  In my haste, it's possible that I was slightly annoyed by the Honda Accord sitting askance in the road ahead.  My lips in pre-snarl formation, I quickly released those particular muscles from their sneering duty when I realized it was my neighbor's car and it was stopped just feet away from a delighted woman whose leash was being gratefully tugged by a bi-colored dachshund.

Lily.  Lily, who is South Dakotan.  Lily, who had clocked in nearly 72 hours Out There, which is a particularly dangerous place when referred to as "Out There," rather than "the neighborhood park" or "Starbucks" or "the Rice's backyard."  Lily, who had no reason to remember the location of her B&B.

Except that, somehow, she did remember it.  Just long enough to wend her stubby-legged little way back to the warm, cozy porch just up the street.

And, for a happy, few minutes, nary a one of us remembered that Mohammed Morsi lay holed up in some secret Egyptian locale, his supporters beating the pudding out of their neighbors who happened to disagree with them.  For those magical moments, I could not for the life of me recall what the words "terrorist" or "Limbaugh" or "Property-tax valuation" meant.

Now, I'd be hard pressed to find a dog that I love more than Finn right now.  But, at about 1:25 yesterday afternoon, I saw only Lily--squat, beautiful, mottled, slightly dehydrated Lily, who had found her way back home somehow.

It was an honest-to-goodness "happily ever after" and I was delighted to be there for it.