Let me begin by introducing you to Mighty Maximus Slattery\u2014better known as Max. Max is not like most dogs. Pointers, for example, point. Retrievers retrieve. Hounds hunt.<\/p>\n
These highly talented and useful breeds behave this way because they are all, as my husband Tom likes to say, real dogs. <\/p>\n
Max is a pug. A roly-poly, fawn-colored pug that excels at sleeping, eating and making us laugh. When we first brought Max home as a 10-week-old ball of fluff, we knew from the dog book that pugs were classified as having \u201cfair intelligence\u201d and being only \u201cmoderately trainable.\u201d<\/p>\n
But over time we were delighted to discover that Max would do practically anything for a treat. He quickly acquired a repertoire of tricks, including \u201cRoll Over,\u201d \u201cSpin Around,\u201d \u201cBow\u201d and \u201cDancey-Dancey.\u201d <\/p>\n
Max has other talents, too. We call them his \u201cspecial abilities,\u201d like the characters have on the TV show Heroes<\/em>. For some inexplicable (and delicious) reason, Max smells like Fritos corn chips. He also possesses the uncanny power, at will, to utterly undo us\u2014like Antonio Banderas\u2019s \u201cPuss in Boots\u201d character in the Shrek<\/em> cartoons\u2014when he cocks his head and makes his bottomless black eyes go all big and sad. <\/p>\n Apparently Max was born with an over-abundance of something zoologists actually call the \u201ccute factor.\u201d With his large round head, flat face, floppy ears, and big front-facing eyes, Max ranks right up there in animal kingdom cuteness with pandas, koala bears and baby seals. But other than being irresistibly cute, what good is a pug?<\/p>\n Keep that thought in mind as I tell you my story\u2026<\/p>\n It hadn\u2019t been a good week. A freakish tropical storm in Connecticut where we live had caused the gutters on our old house to overflow, which in turn caused a flood in our basement, including the carpeted rec room.<\/p>\n I was also anxiously awaiting\u2014okay, worrying obsessively about\u2014test results for a recent CT Scan of Tom\u2019s lungs. A month earlier, he had briefly been hospitalized with what was originally diagnosed as pneumonia. Now the doctor said he wasn\u2019t sure. Maybe it was something else. Something serious. <\/p>\n Then I lost my keys. Well I didn\u2019t actually \u201close\u201d my keys. They vanished. One minute they were on the kitchen table next to my grocery list, securely attached to a brown braided-leather key chain. And when I looked again, after a veritable swarm of gutter and carpet cleaners arrived all at the same time, Poof! <\/em>the keys were gone.<\/p>\n For the next two hours, I turned the house upside down and inside out looking for my keys. First, I got down on my hands and knees and scanned the kitchen floor. Nothing. <\/p>\n Then I dumped and scrutinized the contents of my purse. Twice. Yes, I checked my pockets. And yes, I checked the car. And although I knew it made no sense, I also checked the refrigerator, freezer, pantry and oven. <\/p>\n I called my friend Sara, and told her what had happened and asked her if she would please say a little prayer\u2014for the missing keys, and for Tom\u2019s test results. Which she did, right there over the phone. Praying helped me feel a bit less anxious about Tom\u2014but did nothing for my state of mind about the keys.<\/p>\n As I hung up the phone, I was seized by an unpleasant thought: What if one of the workers took the keys? <\/em><\/p>\n Frantic, I phoned Tom at work, and in a rush of words told him what had happened.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019d better call a locksmith,\u201d he said calmly. <\/p>\n So I did. At least now we didn\u2019t have to worry about being robbed.<\/p>\n Days passed. But I couldn\u2019t stop wondering about the missing keys. In my mind\u2019s eye, I could picture the brown braided-leather key chain so clearly\u2014feel its supple softness, worn smooth as a pebble after years of being tumbled around my purse.<\/p>\n The keys were the first thing I thought of in the morning, and the last thing I thought of before going to sleep. Where could they have gone?<\/p>\n A week later on Saturday afternoon, Tom was standing in the kitchen doorway with dog leash in hand. <\/p>\n \u201cCan you believe the way those keys never turned up?\u201d I asked him. <\/p>\n \u201cGood thing we had the locks changed,\u201d he said. \u201cMax and I are going for a walk. Wanna come?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n On this particular walk, Max assumed his usual pokey pace, meandering along the sidewalk, stopping to sniff (endlessly) every tree trunk, utility pole and fire hydrant along the way.<\/p>\n We strolled past our neighbors\u2019 homes, and then crossed the street, where an empty house was undergoing a renovation. The yard was overgrown and unkempt, littered with lumber and bricks.<\/p>\n Abruptly, Max veered off the sidewalk, and onto the overgrown lot, tugging fiercely on his leash. <\/p>\n \u201cNo, no, Max,\u201d I said. \u201cStay on the sidewalk.\u201d <\/p>\n He regarded me imploringly with his Antonio Banderas eyes, and pulled harder, suddenly lurching forward onto the lawn, and flopping down on his belly, with his legs splayed out. Panting, he closed his eyes and luxuriated in the cool softness of the tall grass and weeds.<\/p>\n \u201cC\u2019mon, Max,\u201d I pleaded, pulling his leash. <\/p>\n Stubbornly he resisted, and became 20 unmovable pounds of dead weight as he pressed his black velvet chin even more firmly into the ground.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know what\u2019s gotten into him,\u201d said Tom. \u201cI guess we\u2019d better pick him up and go home.\u201d<\/p>\n As I bent down to pick Max up, I glimpsed something buried deep in the weeds next to Max\u2019s head, something that looked very much like a bit of brown braided-leather. <\/p>\n