The Prodigal Son.

This post is part of Think Kit by SmallBox.

January 26, 2016 prompt:  “Influencers:  Did you witness someone influence others?  Perhaps you experienced it directly.  Share a tale of persuasion."

The Prodigal Son.

This month I came to hate the full moon. Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful. The stars were bright. Five planets were visible. What's not to love—right?

Okay, perhaps it’s not really the full moon I hate. It's the gravitational pull of the full moon. I’ve been a Registered Nurse for over a quarter of a century, and I believe every one of the old wives tales I've heard about the full moon: The crazies come out at the full moon. Women give birth at the full moon. And, most importantly,  never ever cut or color your hair at the full moon. I’m living proof of that last one.

Every month, when the moon is full Bandit, my almost eleven year old Chinese Crested, decides to run the neighborhood. I know he's going to do it before I even look at the moon. Since we travel so much I keep his leash in the SUV--at least I do ever since we went to a doggie event 150 miles from home and I arrived realizing I had left his leash at home. I ended up going to a sporting goods store and purchasing an ill-fitting, color and style mis-matched collar and leash. From that point on I’ve left his main leash and collar, along with a giveaway leash, in the SUV.

Each month, just before the moon is full, Bandit warns me he's going to run--he starts getting hard-headed. I call "here." He turns a deaf ear. You would think, when he starts his warning phase, I would look up, see the moon was close to full, and open the SUV door to grab his leash, then hang it on the inside door knob for the next time we go out. That’s what I tell myself I will do. It’s what a reasonably intelligent person might do. So of course, as soon as I think it, I forget it. Or I think, maybe this month he’ll mind me—he’s more directable.

 

So this full moon Bandit takes off. I go after him. I bring him home, and before I can get him inside, he takes off a second time! I retrieve him yet again and when we finally get inside I find Moggy, our year old rescue kitty sitting outside the window--he has punched out the side-panel next to the window air conditioner three times. Every time I think it's fixed to where Moggy can't open it, he does. Moggy willingly  came back inside. I fixed it again then left for the day. When I returned, the panel was open and Moggy was gone. He never comes when called but I tried anyway. All through the night, every time I woke up I called. When I took Bandit outside for potty breaks I called. Before I left for work I called. When I came home from work I called. I drove around the neighborhood calling and looking to make sure he hadn't been hit and left by the side of the road. This morning I was awake when the 3:30 am train passed by. I hoped he had enough sense to stay away from the tracks. I was just about to get up to go call for him again, when  I heard a soft thud—and Moggy was hopping up next to me.  

The prodigal son hath returned.

I still need to figure out a way to cat-proof the AC panel.