Losing Patsy Watsy

Fourteen days ago my dog Patsy Watsy ran away. That's an oversimplification - I was hit by a car, and then she ran. Which is a reasonable response. If I was a thirteen-pound yorkie, I'd react similarly.

Following the accident, my partner and I plastered Brooklyn with fliers. Calls started to pour in, but they were just teenagers barking at us. Which was silly, as they sounded nothing like Patsy Watsy. But I wasn't going to tell them that.

A real tip came the following week. They said they had not seen our dog, but they had seen our flier, and it “really sucked.” Thankful for that advice, we then made a new flier. Its success was immediately felt: even more teenagers called barking.

We continued to search for her, passing the same bodegas and boutiques, over and over. I heard, but didn’t listen to, the Christmas music softly tumble out of these storefronts. Meanwhile, strangers became neighbors. They said they would keep an eye out for her. We thanked them profusely.

For twelve days pranksters gave false tips. One caller said our dog had made it all the way to Broadway. Then a caller said she was spotted in a cemetery. We waited for a horrible punchline, but it never came. They said the dog was fast. My heart rose. Patsy was fast! Could it be?

It could. Yesterday, we reunited with Patsy Watsy. Like me, she came out of the accident unscathed, but exhausted. So today we're spending the day curled up on the couch, listening to Christmas music. For the first time, I noticed her ears subtly bob to the tunes. Maybe she visited Broadway after all.