A Game of Hide-and-Seek

For the last three weeks, I have been conducting an investigation so thorough, so scientific, and so utterly lacking in useful results that it ought to qualify for federal funding. The subject of my inquiry is a dog known to me as Popeye, but to the county bureaucracy as AS68908. That number alone tells you something about modern government.

A dog enters public custody with a tail, personality, and a face, and five minutes later, it emerges as a serial number, sounding like a replacement part for a washing machine. If Mark Twain had lived long enough to witness the digital age, he would have written three books on the subject and still not exhausted the absurdity.

After I handed the little fellow over to the county animal shelter, I did what any reasonably concerned citizen would do. I checked their website. Then I checked it again, and again, and often enough that my computer probably suspected me of attempting to infiltrate a federal database.

That is when the mystery began. Some days, AS68908 appeared on the shelter’s website, smiling for the camera and looking hopeful.

Other days, it vanished as completely as a campaign promise after Election Day. Then he would return.

A day or two later, he would disappear again. Before long, he would reappear as though nothing had happened. After watching this performance for two weeks, I felt less like a concerned former caretaker and more like a spectator at the world’s most confusing game of hide-and-seek.

Now, I am making an observation here, not an accusation. An accusation requires evidence, witnesses, and occasionally lawyers. An observation merely requires eyeballs, curiosity, and enough spare time to become suspicious of ordinary events.

From my side of the fence, it looked as though AS68908 was being shuffled in and out of existence according to some mysterious schedule known only to shelter employees and whatever unseen forces govern bureaucracy. The pattern made so little sense that my imagination began supplying explanations of its own.

Perhaps there exists a giant wheel in the shelter’s back office. Every morning, an employee gives it a spin and waits for fate to decide the day’s agenda.

The wheel lands on a different instruction every time. “Public Listing” might be one option. “Private Hold,” “Rescue Transfer,” and “Hide Him for Three Days” might occupy neighboring spaces.

Government agencies have long enjoyed a reputation for paperwork, confusion, and misplacing things. Usually, those things are forms, permits, or tax records. This time, from where I was standing, it appeared they had misplaced a dog.

Could there be favoritism involved? Maybe. Could there be some perfectly ordinary internal process invisible to the public? Probably.

Could cash be changing hands in dark alleys while officials exchange secret envelopes and whisper code words? I have absolutely no evidence of such a thing. Unfortunately, a complete absence of evidence has never prevented a conspiracy theory from enjoying a long and successful career.

The truth is probably far less exciting than the stories my imagination invents. Reality has a nasty habit of disappointing people who spend their afternoons constructing elaborate plots involving corruption, hidden agendas, and coded messages concealed in mundane paperwork.

Still, when something appears, disappears, reappears, and vanishes again often enough, a fellow naturally begins to wonder. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it has kept conspiracy theorists gainfully employed for generations.

I shared my thoughts with the one person I trusted to listen. Then that person stopped communicating with me altogether. That development did absolutely nothing to improve my confidence in the universe.

A suspicious man loses track of a dog and then loses contact with the one person willing to discuss the matter. From that point, his imagination starts looking for trouble. Suddenly, every coincidence begins wearing a fake mustache.

Of course, there is another possibility. Maybe nobody has been silenced, recruited, bribed, or spirited away. Maybe people have lives to live and better things to do than listen to me ramble about shelter websites and missing dogs.

That explanation is by far the most likely. It is also the least entertaining.

As for AS68908, I have reached the limits of what I can accomplish through speculation, sarcasm, and repeated webpage refreshes. The investigation has exhausted its supply of clues and nearly exhausted its investigator.

The little rascal may already be living in a wonderful home. He may be surrounded by other dogs, sleeping on furniture he has no business occupying, and receiving treats he has done absolutely nothing to earn. If so, he has mastered life far better than most humans.

So I have decided to retire from active investigation and return to the traditional American pastime of grumbling about government agencies from a safe distance. It is less stressful, and the odds of success are considerably higher.

In the end, I hope AS68908 finds exactly what every good dog deserves: a warm home, a full food bowl, and people who love him. If that has already happened, then all the mystery, confusion, and hide-and-seek no longer matter.

Still, if he someday turns up driving a county vehicle, carrying official credentials, and refusing to answer questions, I reserve the right to consider all my suspicions fully confirmed. At that point, I expect an apology from everyone who said I was imagining things.