A crazy, screaming, big dumb guy running down the street carrying a jar of peanut butter!

Yes, that's me. And this is a true tale of Shakespearean woe and trauma.

Let's back up a bit.

My daughter's dog is a furry sociopath. Sure, he's cute. Supposedly a pure beagle (I suspect there's a little dachshund mixed in), there's a lot of Houdini in Baron, because this guy can escape out of any situation, any circumstance, any enclosure.

Devil Spawn!

We have a fenced in back-yard, perfect for entertaining canine pals of all sorts and sizes. On occasion, I watch Baron and his younger, bigger brother (a particularly sloppy--but very lovingly sloppy--"coon hound"), Merle. It hadn't been a problem. Until now.

Sweet angel (even though he knocked me over and broke one of my ribs).

Last time I doggy-sat, Baron had found a way into the next door neighbor's yard, where a day care is in full-swing. Things got screamy, barky, and cryesque.

Totally MacGyvering it, I fortified our fence. Up and down the perimeter, I wedged in logs, bricks, stones, bones (where'd those bones come from? Must've been left over from my neighbor, Bob Burdella. Look him up.) along the fence. Safe and sealed.

Well...

Last Friday, Baron got into the day care yard again. How, I don't know. Naturally the little jerk never comes when called, so the trick is to ignore, then lure him in with food. I let his brah, Merle, inside, thought Baron would come whining at the door like last time.

But I heard nothing. I went outside, couldn't spot the lil' hellspawn anywhere. 

Panic reigned! I didn't think to even grab a leash, but had the mindset to snatch a jar of peanut butter. Into the street I ran, panting, sweating, near tears, craning my head in every direction. Screaming "Baron, c'mon boy, look what I got!" while holding at arm's length my jar of peanut butter (generic, yet crunchy). I'm surprised the S.W.A.T. team didn't lower on me from a task force helicopter, crazy man unleashed in the mean streets of suburban Kansas.

Incredible man of action!

Of course, the cow-patterned shirt was an unlucky sartorial choice, just kinda adding to how crazy I looked.


After twenty minutes, I spotted Baron down the block, a minor miracle with my crappy vision. I pursued. He ran. Fun! The chase continued. Soaking wet, panting like a respirator, I finally cornered Baron into a fenced-in backyard three blocks away. I knelt, stuck my finger in the peanut butter jar, held it out... Warily, the brat came toward me. And I snagged him!

Three blocks--three horribly long blocks--I carried him beneath my arm, cursing, smacking his butt. Crisis averted. 

I SO didn't want to have to give my daughter bad news that I'd lost her dog on my watch. Even though it nearly put me in the E.R. or jail.

Hey, speaking of screwed-up Kansas shenanigans, check out my first short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Every band-aid of Kansas creepiness is ripped off, no shying away from the humorous horror of the Midwest.

Take the plunge! (Not responsible for any emotional damage.)