The Great Escape

The youngest and fluffiest member of our family has become as escape artist! To be fair, I don’t blame her as I often dream of running away, perhaps with an apple and a box of tissues tied up in a handkerchief tied to the end of a stick slung over my shoulder. You know, old school style!

Once, when I was about seven, I had a strong disagreement with my mother, probably over something VERY important like me chucking a tanty because she wouldn’t buy me a Strawberry Shortcake Doll, and I thought to myself “That is IT! I am running away!” I told her such and she told me that she would miss me which made me even more irate. I shoved a pair of undies into my school bag and then reality hit me.

Where would I go? What would I eat? Surely the Boogie Man roamed the streets every night looking for stubborn seven-year olds to gobble up. So I did what every rational brat would do, I yelled goodbye from the front door, slammed it from the inside and then silently crept back into my bedroom and rolled under my bed.

I spent hours there, staring at my Holly Hobbie wallpaper. Occasionally I would see Mums’ feet walk past as she got along with her day. I went though every single emotion known to the human form. I was super pissed off, then I wept for a bit, then I got bored and had a little sleep. I was despondent, then irate again. Why wasn’t she on the phone to the police demanding a slew of search dogs to assemble on our front lawn with the Channel Seven Chopper landing on the street ready to film my crying Mum holding a photo of me, pleading with me to return? Did she not care at all?

Eventually I got super hungry and slunk out into the kitchen to inform her that I was back. She was all like, “That’s nice!” and then I put the whole messy incident behind me. Until now.

But back to Isobel Barbara Woog. Yesterday I realised that she was not doing her usual job, which was to shadow my every move. I yelled her name and nothing. Nudda. Silence. So I went a searching the house and yard. I wandered the streets yelling out her name before she popped out of the driveway of Four Doors Down Douglas. Chastising her, I picked her up and took her home. And hour later, she was missing again. This time she went on a huge adventure for about an hour while again, I wandered the streets yelling out like a mad woman.

It is not uncommon in my suburb to come across an escape artist dog. Two notorious members of this club are Paddington and Chelsea, a couple of gorgeous border collies who will quite often turn up on my doorstep. I will text their Mum and let her know that I have them in custody.

Yesterday Mrs Goodman popped over for a cuppa, and being the efficient woman that she is, she found the hole in the fence and plugged it up good and proper. She is practical because she grew up on a farm in South Africa. And that ended the adventures of Isobel Barbara.

Do you have an escape artist at your joint?
Did you ever run away as a kid? How far did you go?