On Christmas Eve, two years ago, my brother and I drove to a house that was ten minutes away wearing our pajama bottoms and pea coats. It was, like, eight in the morning and I was without coffee(which, folks, as I get older this becomes more important. MUCH. More. Important). Brandon, my brother, woke me up and yelled: "Get your ass out of bed. We're going for a ride."

I knew where we were going. We were on our way to pick up this guy:

Kayne. The best damn dog in the world. An Australian Shepard that even as a puppy was a keeper. It took this guy a week to house break and only a month to learn sit, stay, fetch, roll-over, high-five(yes, like a frat dude) and to make blueberry muffins while reciting the Theory of Relativity. A damn good dog. Plus, I'm his uncle.

But this dog also has the best damn owner, my brother, who I adore. He's my best friend. He's the guy that will laugh at my really really bad puns. He's the guy that I threatened people's lives for in high school when he was a freshman and getting teased. He's the guy I blamed breaking one of my mom's expensive collectibles so I could go out to the mall with my friends while he had to sit in his room and read my old Box Car Children series. He's the guy I can call and will be judged by because he loves me and will not hold back what I really need to hear.

Which is why it's killing me what he's going through.

Kayne disappeared three days ago. He was at the groomers. Someone opened the door. Kayne took off. They think he thought he saw my brother and now is lost. This is totally unlike him.

I just got back to Wisconsin today for the holiday and have spent the last four hours driving around with my one of my childhood friends. We have pulled in to vacant parking lots where he might be hiding behind an abandon building. We have circled in quiet neighborhoods hoping he might be asleep on someone's front porch. We have passed out fliers. We have knocked on doors.

It's cold outside. It's been three days. Some people are crazy when it comes to animals. Your brain tends to not have good thoughts when these are your options. But this is my brother. And this dog is his life. And if I have to get up and search the entire five days of my visit I will do it because I can't let my little brother down. This dog means the world to him. Then this means the world to me.

"What if... what if we don't find him?" Sarah, one of my best friends, asks while we both squint in to dark cornfields watching the shapes of trees and street lights hit our faces as she drives.

The big brother in me wants to punch her in the arm and say something like: "Stop! We can't be like that. We'll find him!" But the adult me, the one that needs that coffee when he wakes up and has weighed the options, sits quietly for a second then rolls down the window to yell: "Kayne!" in to the cold.