|My version of the perp walk.|
Here's what happened: Dad and I were walking along the ridge above the field, when a stick caught in the clasp of my leash, instantly freeing me from that dreadful thing. Reader, I escaped. The word goes back to medieval Latin, uncape-ing, or uncloaking oneself, as it were.
After about an hour, during which I sped about, zigging, zagging, sniffing, and otherwise carrying on, I realized I indeed was uncloaked, cold and hungry. I trotted up on someone's deck, looking for sustenance and, perhaps, shelter. Little did I know my sister had outsmarted me—hard to do, I know—and my freedom was over. Really, though, I was ready to go home. My escapade—it comes from the same root as escape but sounds a lot more fun—was over.
By the way, if you live on Rolling Lane in Natick and you're missing a suet feeder, it's a few doors down.