The week after my husband and I returned from our honeymoon, we welcomed our first dog into our family. Bella was just a year old and had already been in three different homes. We cherished her during her time with us. Bella supported me through the loss of two pregnancies, witnessed the arrival of our sons, and moved with us as we transitioned from our first married apartment to various places until we could finally afford a house with a spacious fenced yard and a doggy door just for her. We said our final goodbyes at fourteen, laying her to rest beneath the shade of the large pear tree right outside our bedroom window—her favorite spot where she would lounge for hours, observing the birds and lazily barking at squirrels.
Although I never considered myself a “dog person,” my love for her was undeniable. After Bella passed, I thought we’d remain dog-free for a while, but just days later, I realized that wouldn’t be the case. My children were heartbroken, my husband was somber, and the house felt empty without the familiar patter of paws on our hardwood floors.
I set some ground rules for getting a new dog: shelter dog, medium-sized, housebroken, and non-shedding would be a bonus. I was prepared to wait for the right match.
Two days later, my husband sent me a picture of a puppy from the local shelter. She was just 8 weeks old, not housebroken at all, and definitely on her way to becoming a medium to large dog with wiry hair that would cover everything.
Despite having scrolled through countless puppies without feeling a connection, one glance at her adorable little face made me certain I wanted her to become part of our family forever. The shelter received hundreds of applications, and after visiting, my boys cried when we left her behind. I struggled to hold back my tears at the thought of that innocent puppy spending another night in the shelter. I reassured my kids that if we weren’t chosen, another dog would come our way soon.
To our delight, the shelter did pick us out of so many applicants. Our little girl, whom we named Luna, has now been with us for over two years. She transformed from the cutest puppy into the most adorable adult dog. Her wiry puppy coat evolved into a chaotic mess covering her entire body. We groom her, but she becomes a muddy disaster within the hour. Luna loves to snatch my dish towels and the kids’ toys. She tolerates my attempts to style her hair in ponytails and has always been gentle. We’ve never heard her bark indoors, and she truly is the sweetest dog we could ever wish for.
Well, except for one tiny issue.
She is an escape artist. And fast. The moment she spots an open door, she zips through it, disappearing before you can blink. She always returns, but it’s anyone’s guess how long she’ll be gone or where she’ll wander off to.
Fortunately, she doesn’t dig or jump fences. (Okay, there was that one little incident last spring when she found a gap in the fence, rolled around in mud until her ID tag fell off, and decided to visit our new neighbors who thought she was a stray. They bathed her and posted her picture online. I was mortified but relieved she came back smelling great.) Generally, she doesn’t need to escape; she knows that her chance for freedom is waiting for the perfect moment.
Her partner in crime is my son, Oliver, who just turned five and apparently was raised in a barn because he can never seem to shut a door properly. Luna knows her best opportunity for an afternoon adventure is when he forgets to close the front door. She’s patient enough to wait until my van pulls into the driveway, then bolts outside, watching us through the fence. If my husband is with me, she knows her limits and will hesitate, as one commanding “Luna!” from him sends her scurrying back home.
However, my frantic calls for her to return often fall on deaf ears. If I’m alone with the kids, she sneaks up to the dog door, waiting for the slightest lapse in attention. The moment the door is unattended, she darts through the house and out the front door, off to explore.
Before I know it, she’s three houses down, barking at a French mastiff named Rufus. Rufus jumps his fence to join her, along with a mischievous toothless chihuahua from next door. I’ve even spotted them gallivanting with a cat. It’s like a scene from “Oliver and Company,” but way less charming and utterly embarrassing.
Last night, I noticed that Rufus’s owner installed an invisible fence. I can’t help but think Luna is responsible for that. (Actually, I’m sure she is.) In the two years since Luna arrived, I’ve chased her on foot while hauling a toddler in a wagon, waddled through the neighborhood heavily pregnant, desperately calling for her, and even stood on the porch shaking a box of treats like a crazed maraca, hoping to lure her back home.
But the low point of my dog-chasing saga was when I drove around the neighborhood at 5 mph with hot dogs hanging out of the driver’s side window, hoping she would catch a whiff and hop into the car.
Last spring, Oliver threw open the door to greet his brother from the school bus, and Luna seized the opportunity. Instead of returning home, my son tossed his backpack into the yard and took off after her.
I quickly loaded Oliver (and my newborn daughter) into the van and sped off after Henry, but he was nowhere to be found. I lost my cool, driving up and down the street, shouting his name out the window, convinced he had fallen down an old-timey well like in a “Lassie” episode. Luna may be sweet, but she’s no heroic Collie ready to save my child from peril. This silly mutt would never alert the sheriff.
After a tense interaction with a neighbor who thought I was yelling at him instead of searching for my missing child, I spotted my son and the pup trotting out from behind a stranger’s house, Luna walking obediently beside my beaming first-grader. It was the only time in my life I laughed and cried simultaneously, like a cartoon villain. My children and the dog were all shaken.
Luna’s latest adventure involved bolting out the door while still partially wet from her bath. We hadn’t put her collar back on yet. She ended up spending the night in someone’s garage while I comforted my distraught children, who feared she was gone forever. Thanks to social media, we retrieved her the next day, and thankfully, she’s been home without incident for a couple of months now. I think her unexpected overnight stay in a strange garage served as a sort of canine “Scared Straight” experience for our sneaky pup.
I know that the obsessive dog lovers out there might judge me, thinking I should somehow outsmart Luna at every turn. Believe me, I’ve tried. She’s fast, and I’m often distracted. We’re doing our best here. Luna is warm, well-fed, and adored by a family of five. She has a fenced yard to romp in, a dog door, a dog house, and everything a pup could desire. She’s just a little mischievous and loves to run. Can’t blame a girl for wanting to explore!
In every other way, Luna is an absolute gem. She is sweet, loving, gentle, and incredibly adorable. She adores my children and often rests her little head in my lap while I write, providing a calming presence. It’s hard to believe the same sweet puppy is now the adventurous dog who occasionally rounds up a motley crew and spends her evenings roaming the neighborhood.
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Summary:
This article shares the humorous and heartfelt journey of a family with their dog, Luna, who has a knack for escaping and causing a ruckus in the neighborhood. The author recounts the challenges of managing a mischievous pup while navigating parenthood, ultimately highlighting the joy and love that pets bring into our lives.