Not on a Monday
“Frenchie” - photo by Andrew Watkins
“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.”
Proverbs 16:9
“Here we go,” I coaxed Molly, as we reached our turnaround spot on the Santa Fe Trail. Molly’s brown eyes gazed up at me knowingly. I turned, and she immediately followed my lead. The trail sloped downhill, prompting me to pick up my pace. The sun peeked over the horizon, bright and full of promise. My mind drifted.
Monday morning. My to-do list outnumbered the hours in the day, yet I was determined to accomplish the responsibilities ahead! Due to work deadlines, my dear friend, Evelyn, offered to homeschool my kids alongside hers for the day. They would be ready when I returned. What a gift.
With each step, I ordered my priorities. The day began taking shape.
An unexpected movement on the trail ahead startled me, breaking my reverie. A shape emerged from the tall grass. I squinted into the sun. Another dog? I scanned the horizon — no humans in either direction. Ranch properties bordered the trail, and the nearest neighborhood was several miles away.
Molly and I slowed our pace. Instead of running away, the dog approached us.
Much smaller than my standard poodle, the pup sniffed and circled Molly with friendly interest. She returned the greeting, and soon the two were bouncing around together. The dog’s stout legs and scrunched face suggested a French bulldog. He left Molly alone for a moment and nuzzled my legs for additional attention. I knelt down to pet him. No collar. However, his walnut-colored coat was soft and healthy — someone loved him!
“What do you think we should do, Molly?” I asked. She just peered at me seriously.
“You need to go home,” I told the bulldog, shooing him away before I started running.
Much to my surprise, the dog joined us.
His stout legs raced furiously to keep pace with Molly’s long stride. “Go on home,” I repeated, quickening my pace. The dog barreled along even quicker, snorting with his efforts to keep up.
We had three miles back to the car.
Surely, he’ll turn around and go back home.
Twenty-five minutes later, he was still hustling.
He followed us the entire way to my car.
“Now what do I do?” I asked Molly. Still no advice.
“Well, little guy,” I said when we reached my SUV, I-25 roaring nearby, “I’m not leaving you here.”
I loaded both dogs into the back of my vehicle. Little Frenchie jumped over two rows of seats and made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He nuzzled my arm. Molly glared from the back.
Five minutes later we arrived home. The dog barreled inside and devoured Molly’s food while the kids celebrated. I texted neighbors and friends, including Jessa, the owner of Fox Run Veterinary Hospital.
“Bring him to the clinic,” Jessa advised. “We’ll scan for a microchip.” I said my goodbyes to my kids, whizzed up a smoothie, and put all work projects on hold. I drove him to the clinic. Frenchie was microchipped — but not registered.
“We’ll post online,” the staff informed me. “We can hold him, or you can keep him until someone claims him.”
Since I was planning to be home, I agreed to keep him.
Back home, I tackled my work. After a Zoom call, I let the dogs out. Gates closed — check! Sliding door cracked — check.
Later, I noticed Molly curled up beside me. Frenchie? I cocked my head.
Silence.
The dog was nowhere to be seen.
I quickly searched the yard. Both gates were still shut. My yard is fenced, except for the patio. However, the raised patio wall drops about five feet — a strong deterrent for escapees. I peered over the edge. Barking echoed several houses away.
He jumped?
I grabbed a leash. He couldn’t have gotten that far, could he?
I ran in the direction of the barking dogs — nothing. I searched the opposite direction. Still nothing. Frenchie had escaped again?!
Defeated, I returned home and brewed a cup of tea. So much for productivity. If Frenchie was determined to run, who was I to stop him?
An hour later I received a phone call from my dog-loving neighbor, Beverly.
“I saw a Next Door post about the dog you found. A woman has him.”
Relief flooded me. I called her immediately, coordinated a meeting, and picked him up. Frenchie greeted me like his long-lost friend.
Back at my house, I secured every possible exit.
“You’re not escaping again!” I declared. I created another post on Lost Pets. Molly and Frenchie sprawled on the floor, exhausted. I was tempted to join them. Two minutes later my phone buzzed.
You found Buster! Please call me.
Buster! Of course!
A man answered and confirmed the details about his dog.
“That’s him,” he said. “He likes to run off. Earlier this year he paired up with another runner and ran a couple miles with her, too!”
I shook my head in disbelief. Fifteen minutes later, Buster happily reunited with his owner and they drove off.
As I stood in the driveway watching Buster disappear down the road, I glanced at my watch.
Almost time to pick up the kids.
I laughed — the kind that’s filled with disbelief and delight all in one. I had started the day running downhill on the Santa Fe Trail, organizing my priorities.
And yet, not one single item on my list had involved chasing a runaway French bulldog through the neighborhood… twice.
That morning, as my feet hit the dirt in rhythmic certainty, I had resolved to conquer the day. By afternoon, the day had conquered me — in the most ridiculous and delightful way possible.
Buster didn’t care about my deadlines. He didn’t respect patio walls, fenced yards, or neatly structured hours. He simply ran where he pleased, paired up with strangers, and trusted someone would eventually help him find his way home.
And somehow, in all the disorder, I found myself more joyful.
My list would still be there tomorrow. But the image of that stout little body snorting breathlessly beside Molly and me for three straight miles? That was worth far more than a checked box on my to-do list.
Maybe Buster was a gift after all.
Not a grand epiphany. Not a life-altering revelation. Just a gentle nudge. A reminder to smile — to let go of control, to laugh at ourselves, to embrace the chaos.
I started the day trying to manage every step.
I ended it grateful for the ones I never saw coming.
Have you ever had a Buster day? One that rerouted your plans but left you smiling anyway?
If so, maybe we’re meant to celebrate those wild goose chases. Maybe they’re the very stories that keep us from taking life — and ourselves — too seriously.
And honestly?
I hope Buster runs again someday.
Just maybe… not on a Monday.