It all happened one morning, beautiful and bright as the bird’s chirp, and the sand glows under the golden rays of the morning sun. Ahhh well, at least that’s how I pictured it. C’mon, I was just 2 at that time, what would I know. My daily routine was to eat, sleep, poop, and throw tantrums. Of course, I must say the order is subject to vary or repeat from time to time. Because I was the QUEEN of the world.
I was accustomed to regularly seeing my big sis dressing up and going to school every morning. On this very eventful day, I thought, “Eh? What the hell, I am a big girl now and ready to conquer the world.”
Like a dutiful daughter, I lock up my family in the house and run outside, telling everyone, “tata, bubye.”
Like most parents do, mine didn’t take the rant seriously at that time. After all, it was my playtime routine. Then, as time passed and a sudden silence grew in the house, it finally stuck to them, “Damn, that kid really took off.”
Needless to say, hell broke loose. After much chaos, panic, and door breaking attempts, Mrs. Neighbor comes to rescue and unlocks the door.
Then began, the HUNT and after a few hours of sweat, endless tears and possible bloodshed, alas the kid was found.
Where you ask?
A couple of lanes away stuck fearfully to the wall of a water-well.
Why was I scared?
A huge black dog was sitting right in front of me, staring into my eyes, no, no… staring into my soul, deep into my soul.
It was a fairly tale happy ending for my family!
As for me, two things still haunt me –
- I still have PTSD from the incident and still am petrified of dogs. Love them but scared at the same time.
- The constant wonder, if the right kid was brought back home. I guess I will never know!