Bluey's Gone

Winding along a cobblestone street past old world Tudor style homes, I breathed deep the aromatic scent of freshly burning wood wafting from the chimneys above. I could almost envision Chestnuts roasting on those open, albeit controlled fires within. The holidays nearly upon
us, I hoped for just a dusting of the white stuff to complete this tranquil
picture postcard that danced like visions of sugar plums in my adult head,
which admittedly would not know a sugar plum from the inexplicably revered roasted chestnut.
Deep within the confines of my trouser pocket, the not unpleasant vibration from my cell phone interrupted my blissful state. I contemplated ignoring it with the hope of returning to the traditional Christmas scene unfolding within my overactive imagination, but alas duty called in the guise of my wife. Before I could utter a witty
salutation, two words shattered the peaceful night with the violence of an unexpected thunderclap.
“Bluey’s gone!”
With his exaggerated long nose and a limp tail that never wagged, Bluey had wandered into our lives nearly a year prior during an afternoon shopping excursion. While my significant other merrily scooped up bargains within our tax bracket, I had been left with the task of silencing the incessant sobbing coming from our grumpy bundle of joy. With a frenzied finesse that only an exasperated father can accomplish, I seized a furry blue pup from its comfortable home in a holiday themed display unit and thrust it into the arms of my wailing toddler. He briefly looked up at me in wonder and then instinctually cooed softly to the newly acquired canine. Like Snoopy and Woodstock, or Linus and his iconic security blanket, the two had become inseparable.
Until now.
“All right, calm down,” I said, taking on the
calm demeanor of a 911 dispatcher. “Does he know that Bluey’s missing yet?”
“No.”
“Let’s retrace your steps.”
“We dropped by my mom’s first, then
stopped at Sears before…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I abruptly interrupted. “Why did you go to Sears?”
“What difference does that make?” she snapped.
I smiled sadistically, knowing full well that she could barely navigate a major
thoroughfare without making an impromptu shopping pit stop.
“Did he have Bluey with him when you went inside?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember. I think so.”
“He definitely had him when he left your mom’s?”
“I don’t know,” she yelled.
With uncanny timing, call waiting signaled the intention of my mother-in-law to get her two cents in.
“Hello?”
“Bluey’s gone.”
While she droned on, reporting every minute detail of the search they had conducted, my mind wandered, imagining a rigorous Find Bluey campaign that would begin with the liberal plastering of leaflets on telephone poles and the windows of local businesses. How long, I wondered before I could contact the authorities and report the disappearance of our beloved four legged friend? Which civil group should I reach out to first? The Fire Department maintained a sterling reputation for rescuing wayward felines from mighty oaks; yet, the Police Department could quickly canvass the area once I filed the missing blue animal report. Thankfully, call waiting chimed again interrupting the ongoing in-law status report; something that should have been wrapped up in only a sentence or two.
“He ain’t there,” I reported, sullenly accepting the fact that there would be no happy ending in our immediate future while simultaneously questioning our qualifications as responsible parents (my initial non-involvement in this fiasco notwithstanding).
What followed was a near death defying race to the scene of the crime. She drove with reckless abandon. Laws were broken, fists raised in anger, gestures a woman should never be privy to. I’m a white knuckled passenger when the wife commandeers the vehicle, but this was no longer a spouse behind the wheel. This was a frantic mom on a mission.
I was proud.
I was scared.
I yelled.
A LOT!
Junior laughed.
I’m not a child psychologist, nor do I play one in print, but this kid was having the time of his life. His head whipped violently from side to side as we ascended the winding ramp of the parking garage. I rooted through the glove compartment for Dramamine, while simultaneously scanning the asphalt for any sign of furry blue road pizza. Trying to get my sea legs back, I walked unsteadily towards the store entrance, lagging far behind wife with child in stroller who had taken off running at high speed, the little man’s squeals of delight echoing through the eerily quiet cavern.
“We lost a little dog,” she hurriedly informed an uninterested security guard. “He’s blue and has a really long nose and a tail. Has anyone turned in a blue dog?”
“He’s not real,” I offered with a shrug of the shoulders.
We entered the selling floor through the electronics department where I momentarily lost sight of the purpose of our late night expedition. In Women’s, my betrothed had dropped to floor level, slinking beneath a maze of hanging fabric, looking not unlike the Grinch on his famous Christmas Eve foray. Above, the tinkling of electronically enhanced sleigh bells beamed from the ceiling
speakers, signifying the opening of Sleigh Ride, one of the most annoying holiday tunes ever recorded. Without warning she shot up out of nowhere, howling with joy and likely scaring the crap out of nearby consumers.
“I found him,” she squealed!
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I cheered.
“Look, it’s Bluey,” she gushed, happily handing over the little critter that had looked no worse for the wear.
“Yay, Bluey,” he answered in childlike bemusement.
We marched proudly past the still nonplussed security guard on our way back out.
“Thank you for believing,” I said theatrically and then turned to address the weary, confused looking shoppers.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”