BATHROOM HUMOR

If you've followed this post, you might remember Ben's exploits with our upstairs bathroom last March while the Number 2 Son, Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I kicked up our heels in The Big Apple.

I, of course, have kindly provided the link but if you are insufferably lazy don't want to trip down my cyberspace Memory Lane for the re-cap, here's the 4-1-1: Ben hates the wind when he's inside the house. As a result, my furry little friend, on two separate occasions while we were gone, apparently (and very purposefully) closed himself in the upstairs bathroom to escape some wild nights of stormy March weather.

Fast forward to yesterday. (Time travel, I maintain, is a wonderful thing.)

I got home from work around 5 p.m. expecting the usual greeting -- Ben pressed so close to the front door, gyrating in joy, that it's impossible to enter the house without five minutes of head-rubs and reassurances that, yes indeed, once again I had not run off to join the circus.

No Ben.

(This is not necessarily a cause for concern. As he's gotten older, Ben sometimes naps so hard, he doesn't hear the front door open. On these days, you're generally greeted by a somewhat disheveled head poking around our bedroom door at the top of the stairs. After a couple sleepy blinks and a good shake, Ben kicks into action and we're back to Scenario One as described above.)

I called his name.

No Ben.

I called his name again. No Ben.

I climbed the stairs and checked all four bedrooms upstairs.

No Ben.

I ran downstairs and checked the living room, dining room and kitchen.

No Ben.

I am now in warp drive, flying through the house to check the basement, garage, and heaven help us, did we accidentally leave him outside? the backyard.

No Ben.

For what it was worth, I repeated the above steps.

No Ben.

It's safe to say I was frantic, on the tipping point toward panic, as I stood at the back door minus one dog who seemingly evaporated into thin air from inside a locked house.

And then I noticed the powder room door. It was not latched, but partially closed.

I gingerly pushed the door open, encountering some slight (furry) resistance as Ben came dancing out of the tiny bathroom. He was positively exuberant. I'm still not sure whether this was because he was happy to see me -- or totally rhapsodic that he had once again created his treasured canine cone of silence.

I can live with this somewhat eccentric use of the loo. We all need a port in a storm.

But, Ben? Dude. Throw me a bone here.

Bark next time.