IN HINDSIGHT, I PROBABLY INCLUDED TOO MUCH PERSONAL INFORMATION IN MY MISSING DOG BULLETIN

By

Ian Rick

As you, the house owners and room renters bunched along Terrace Road, may have heard, possibly at a neighborly backyard barbecue, of modest jolly and cheer, that I wasn't invited to but still caught an ungenerous whiff of while walking to the corner store to purchase scratch-offs and swisher sweets, our beautiful dog, Betsy, has been missing for approximately 4- 12 days.

Betsy has been a crucial part of our family since that night I found her on the side of the road, after a car--which I was driving—had hit her. The progeny of mine that the courts have deemed me fit to remain in contact with, Thad and Jade, nursed her back to health—good health, even. She became known as the miracle dog, and then just as the dog. The next evolution in sobriquet will probably be a symbol.

Loved by our entire household (read: the kids), Betsy, a feral looking terrier with a clandestine rabies shot history, can be best identified by the chummy wags of her tail. Though we are offering a reward of only $0, it would be impossible to put a price on Betsy and what she means to us. However, if, upon her safe, or reasonably safe, return, you are interested in buying her, we can talk figures at that time.

While there is no way of knowing exactly how or when Betsy jimmied free from our caring family, some reckless speculation never hurt anyone.

Did Jade leave the back door ajar when she returned home from her night set at Randy's World of Peep?

Could Thad have left his window open when he ran away, after I told him—in the most responsible manner—that he was the unwanted upshot of my longest-tenured former husband, Milo, being too cheap to go halfsies on an abortion?

Do any of you think Sara Greer forgot to fully close the front gate when she left our dinner party, on Saturday? And, Sara, please—If I had wanted to hear about your breast cancer scare I would have asked you! Why do you think no one else showed up at the party!

An image unburdens itself in my mind: Betsy, affluent in her desire to return to her loved ones, flirting her way through unfamiliar darkened streets and over-lit alleys, is met by a family in a car, albeit a car that, unlike ours, isn't for sale and doesn't get great gas mileage. This family—say a son, a daughter, and a mother, granted a mother whose breasts sag further than mine, who, unlike me, isn't at her sexual zenith, isn't gravely available, isn't willing to experiment with certain things that can't even be mentioned in most states—sees our darling Betsy, browses her features, her visage, and decides to take her with them.

What these people, who need to contact me immediately (preferably just the son), don't realize is that Betsy is accustomed to a certain quality of living.

With the exception of ecstasy, the most important thing to us is the care and treatment Betsy receives. She favors generic brand food that has been bought on sale. During the summer I was stuck in county lockup, she ate a goodish amount of unrecycled newspapers and hamburger helper boxes, so those would also suffice.

Exercise is a key component to her days. She is particularly fond of sprinting from dishes that have been blindly and violently flung during arguments. I've also established a routine where once a month I'll take her for a walk—usually to my weed dealer's house and back.

She is the kind of dog that must be intermittently sprinkled with affection. Make sure you graze against her with your elbow while reaching for the remote. When using your feet as a petting apparatus, heavy boots and sharpened heels must first be removed—unless you are extremely tired.

Since Betsy's deduction from us, whenever that was, our hitherto perfect family has experienced a jot of turmoil. So many of our happy memories are tethered to that dog. After I received a bad tip at the pony races and lost the money needed for a leash and one of those collars that a leash attaches to, it was Jade who conjured up the necessary funds by evicting several semen-sluiced singles of uncrumpled consolation from her g-string. That was the moment I realized my daughter was a self-sufficient adult.

When Thad was going through his brief—very brief—bisexual period, it was Betsy who helped drive his boyfriend, Leroy, away with her upbraiding growls, her penchant for slavering on his shoes. And when some people—only me—started a rumor that Leroy had lice, his relationship with my son ended. And our close family became close again.

What I'm saying is that family, family happiness, is the most important thing to us all—maybe not for Scott Andrews, of the ugly brown house with the shock of queer looking garden gnomes, whose wife, children, and friends fled from him following our affair, leaving behind a lonely loiterer of the front lawn, a forlorn waver to cars on the pass-by, in their exodus. Come over for dinner anytime, Scott. We've always adored your cooking. We also have some roof work we need your help with.

And, friends, finally, if any of you wish to contribute to the "Save Betsy" fund—some pressure—you are welcome to give me cash, coupons, or canned foods. I'm aware that Molly Farnham has unwisely decided to ask everyone to donate to her fundraiser walk—she should have set up a "maintaining her figure" walk years ago—but please, in the end, let your hearts and my constant badgering dictate who you will support in this difficult time.