I looked to my right and I felt like my heart had stopped. I saw her lying in the road. She’s dead; out of my life forever. Why couldn’t that gate have been closed? I am very emotional when I think back at the rollercoaster of feelings I experienced that wild night.


“Hey Carrington, go let Pogo out before we go to bed,” my mom commanded as she sat on our brown leather couch, reading the newspaper.

“Yea, sure,” I replied lazily to my mom. I have had Pogo, my short-legged, long-bodied, black dachshund, as a pet for a long time. Pogo, a bit goofy and mischievous, has a lot of energy to burn for such a small dog. I adore her small, bat-like ears, especially the extra-soft fur that sits atop her earflaps. “Where is Pogo?” I pondered to myself. I tried to recall when I had last seen her and realized it had been awhile. I hunted for her in all of her usual hiding places, under the paisley ottoman, the living room couch, and in every bed in our home. I could not find her anywhere. I went into the kitchen, expecting I might find her sniffing around for food like she always does. I went into the study that had my brother’s aquarium, hoping to find Pogo watching the turtles and fish swimming in the clear water around the miniature, plastic pirate ship. I could feel my stomach slowly become a giant knot of fear.

“Mommmm,” I emitted a loud squeal, like a screeching monkey, “I cannot find Pogo anywhere.”

“Go check outside, maybe your father and brother let her out before they left for an errand,” answered my mom. I trudged across the living room and peered into the back yard. Yes, she was probably already outside. As I went out into the backyard, I began yelling Pogo’s name. I called for her about a thousand times and still no response. I even resorted to putting food in her bowl and rattling the food around, knowing that she always came to this delicious sound. Pogo did not come. Then, I noticed the open gate. I screamed. I cried. I shivered at the thought of losing my beloved dog. Pogo was gone.


I ran back inside, flew up the stairs and told my mom, almost out of breath—“the back gate is open and Pogo had gotten out of our yard.” The newspaper my mom had been reading tumbled to the ground like a tornado ripped it straight from her hands. We quickly got into my mom’s car to search my quiet and comfortable neighborhood for Pogo. I convince myself that it would be easy to spot Pogo due to the wide and spacious streets. Large, beautiful trees form a canopy of shade over most of the streets. I usually feel safe and protected in my neighborhood. But not now; instead the trees began to look like monsters, as the dark night started to set in over the summer sky. I felt scared and unprotected.

I can tell my mom feels the fear too. My mind starts to race. I thought about never seeing Pogo’s black, whiskered face again. I pondered how things would change. I would not wake up every morning with her licking my face, ready for a round of tug-of-war. She would never greet me at the door when I came home from school. I would not smile to myself every time I saw her wiggle across the carpet, as she tried to scratch her back. What would it feel like to have her out of my life forever? I screamed. I cried. I shivered.


As our white car screeched around the corner with the crackling sounds of the tires smushing the gravel below, I turned my head and I saw something black in the middle of the asphalt. It had tufts of fur sticking out from its elongated body, and I could tell it was not moving. Our car came up on the animal. The scene hit me like a tidal wave and I knew what had happened. Pogo had been hit by a car. A ghastly whiteness spread over my face and I gawked at Pogo in the road with my eyes bulging out of their sockets. I thought about how I would track down the car that hit her and smash it to pieces with a baseball bat to give it a taste of its own medicine. As we got closer to Pogo, I saw something I had never seen on her before, a thick white line running from her back down to her tail as if it had just been painted on her. In the car, I could see my mom start to smile. At the time, I had no earthly idea why she was smiling but when I looked closely out my window, I understood why. It was a skunk, not Pogo. I wiped the tears off my face. I still had a chance of finding Pogo alive.

Minutes felt like hours as we continued to look for Pogo. My brother and dad now back from their errand were helping us look for Pogo along with our neighbors. Hopes were fading fast though. It was pretty late and my parents, getting tired of looking, started discussing other options, like continuing the search in the morning and making “Lost Dog” posters. I felt sick inside and wondered why life had to be filled with sadness and heartache.

About to quit combing the neighborhood for Pogo, I saw two shadowy figures emerge from the bushes holding a filthy, quivering, black ball of fur. As these two figures walked up the driveway for what seemed like eternity, I could make out that it was my brother and dad. They had found Pogo. I ran to my brother and kissed Pogo on her dirty forehead. I lovingly rubbed the soft fur on the top of her earflaps. I could not believe she was right in front of me.

The day after we found Pogo, and still to this day, I look back at this event and realize that not everything in life will go as planned. Some things simply do not turn out the way you hoped they would. Fortunately, this time around, I found Pogo and things went my way. However, I know that I will face other open gates in my life and I will have no choice but to watch some of my hopes and dreams escape through them. I sure hope that I am ready for whatever comes my way.