ERICA: “OLIVER ESCAPED! OLIVER ESCAPED! GET DOWNSTAIRS AND GET HIM NOW!”
Oliver is our lovable Basset Hound and he’s a bit of an escape artist. Last night I thought he escaped.
Here are the evening’s events as they unfolded, as best we can piece them together:
7:42:36 pm Delivery man rings doorbell.
7:42:40 pm Greg opens door.
7:42:41 pm Oliver runs out in hall and “disappears.”
*Greg is oblivious.
7:42:46 pm Greg comes into the living room and casually asks “Where’s Oliver?”
At this point, you can feel free to revisit the bold faced caps above. This is when I freaked and started screaming. I quickly scanned our 742 sq ft apartment (not many places to hide in here) and did not see Oliver anywhere.
Greg calmly asked the delivery man if the elevator opened and he let out a panicked “NOOOO,” but I wasn’t buying it. It took me all of 3.2 seconds to become hysterical. I was positive that the elevator opened without a ding (which it DOES do sometimes) and that Greg and the delivery man were so involved in friendly banter, neither one noticed Oliver’s exit. I was panicked for my dog’s safety, pissed at Greg and ready to strangle this poor, entirely blameless delivery man. (He didn’t really understand English and thus, perhaps, was spared the full extent of my stark raving lunacy.)
Screaming like a banshee and near hyperventilation, I desperately flailed my arms at Greg. In the midst of the chaos, Greg peeked his head into our bedroom. Allll the way on the furthest reach of our bed, Oliver sat calmly chomping on a big, honkin’ italian roll without a care in the world. Apparently the sneaky mutt had grabbed it out of Greg’s dinner bag and darted away like a black cat to avoid detection.
Phew. Catastrophe averted. My sincerest apologies to the delivery man on duty last night at Mocca Lounge. You’re getting a REALLY big tip the next time we call.