Lost dog

Bim. Bom. Bim. The tones sound, and there’s a pause before the monotone woman starts chattering away in a language foreign to me. Her voice echoed around the town. I mean it really does. Her words are emanating from Communist-era megaphones around town. 

I wait, asking my husband to run outside to listen to what the important message might be. He understands the language. It’s his mother tongue. And the message is sure to be important. Why else would they broadcast it throughout town at 11:07 am on a summer Friday?

He walks back inside, giggling. 

A lost dog. 

I look at him questioningly. Are you telling me a joke? Did you see a lost dog outside? Don’t you know I’m anxious to hear what the announcement was?

A lost dog. 

The announcement was that a lost dog was found. It’s a nice dog. It’s brown with white spots and it was found in front of Telco, or something like that. If it’s yours, come and get it.