The great French Bulldog escape

Friday (my day off) was spent carting dogs to and from the vet: Golly and Roc needed their annual physical (read shots) and everybody needed heartworm tests.

Our vet, who I adore (in a wish-she-could-be-my-doctor way) is a bit old-fashioned; no appointments. You walk into the waiting room, sign in, and wait your turn. Consequently, when it's time for heartworm testing, waits can be long. Waiting at the vet can also be loud, depending on the dogs, and entertaining, depending on the other people. Friday morning, when I took Golly and Roc, was dogs-with-pushed-in-faces day, our two Brussels Griffons, a pug and a Boston Terrier.

Golly and Roc were puzzled by the Boston. She looked like their sister, but she was calm. Even sedate. Their little faces kept going from the Boston (Daisy) to my face, as if to say "What is this? Why is it not in perpetual motion? Is there something wrong with this dog?" Their fascination with Daisy perplexed Daisy's dad, until I explained the situation. He was astonished to learn that other Bostons could be, shall we say, more lively than his Daisy. He was gone by the time I brought Ceilidh in later that day. Shame. He could have learned the Dark Side of the Boston Force.

Golly and Roc both passed with flying colors - such good babies. No problem.

Later in the afternoon, I geared up to take Dax and Ceilidh in for their tests. Taking Ceilidh anywhere requires preparation; treats and a collapsible crate are essential. Leashes in hand, purse and crate over my shoulder, treats in my pocket, I sally off to the car. First things first: I sling the crate into the back, open Ceilidh's car crate, pick her up and pop her in. With all of her challenges, she's actually an excellent traveller. We are grateful for small favors.

As I'm putting Ceilidh in the car, I know something's not right. I look down and Dax's leash, which was supposed to be under my foot, is not. And there is Dax, trotting off across the street, into the neighbor's yard, heading for the alley behind his house. She's not running away from me, she's trotting at a very deliberate, very adorable, very terrifying Frenchie clip. I slam the hatch, start calling "Dax, come" (which got an ear twitch) and go running after her. I'm a pretty darn good dog trainer, so I use all the tricks in the book: run the other way, yell cookie, etc., etc. She just keeps on trotting.

I caught her leash at the end of the neighbor's yard. She'll be back in training class this week. You betcha.