It was the wee hours of the morning.
Startled awake, I listened in darkness.
Was that the shuffle of feet on the hardwood floor? Stumbling down the staircase, I was sure I heard a "yippee!"
There, "bustin' a move" was Poncho, my daughter Traci's pint-size dog.
Dancing and prancing, his hips swaying, I opened the door leading to their backyard. A blast of winter air hit me as the little canine nimbly slid through the gap.
I watched from the window, the porch light casting a small circle onto the lawn. Funny... I'd never seen a dog do the Samba.
"Poor little guy," I mumbled as I moved across the chilly room to turn on the space heater. "He must be cold and maybe even lonely with his 'pet parent' away."
I peered again through the window. No Poncho.
Where had that dog gone? Throwing open the backdoor, I stepped into the wet grass, my pajamas hiked-up to my knees.
"Poncho!" I yelped, a trace of panic rising in my voice. "Poncho!!"
It seemed the miniature mutt had waltzed-off into the wintry abyss.
Now it was my turn to dance. Racing to the front of the house, all modesty forgotten, I stared up and down the row of houses that lined the sidewalk.
"Poncho!" I barked into the night, hoping to not wake the neighbors. (The last thing I needed was a photo posted on Facebook.)
Suddenly, I caught a flash of white boogying on the street almost a block away. Down the driveway I scampered barefoot, my frantic call echoing through the deserted street.
Fortunately, because the bars in town were closed and I seemed to be the only partner in sight, Poncho reluctantly did the quick-step back to the house.
"Your feet are cold," my husband mumbled as I climbed back into bed.
What did he expect? Instead of a quick doggie wee, I'd been out dancing the Samba.