IT WAS ABOUT 10 o'clock at night, and I was sitting in my car outside the Riverside Center Dinner Theater where I'd just finished an interview when, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something four-legged dart past.

It was dark out, and it happened so fast that, for a moment, I was convinced I'd imagined the whole thing.

I was thinking I might need new contact lenses when I saw a man come running full-tilt around the side of the building, racing in the same direction as the aforementioned blur.

I didn't know the man, but I instantly recognized his run: limbs flailing in a pathetic attempt to propel the body forward at the same rate as the four-legged escape artist he was chasing; face contorted in equal parts fear and fury; a string of expletives cascading from his lips.

It was the Sprint of the Damned--the deranged scamper you do when your dog has gotten loose.

I've done it more times than I can count.

Around the age of 9, my beagle went through a prolonged phase where she thought it was great fun to greet me at the door when I came home late from work--and then bolt right past me for a midnight jaunt around the neighborhood.

Witnesses to the spectacle would spot a flash of fur scurrying down the street, followed a few seconds later by an irritated and often barefoot man at full gallop after his wife's beloved hound, followed a few seconds after that by a panicked redhead screaming her dog's name while furiously shaking a box of biscuits.

After her third or fourth escape, fearing I'd lose her for good one night, I outfitted her with a reflective full-body harness, decked out with bells and a flashing red LED light. I figured that would make her easier to track in the dark and maybe prevent drivers from flattening her fugitive, ungrateful, tri-colored hind parts.

That was right about the time she gave up this irritating habit and opted for staying on the couch instead, probably because she knew just how ridiculous she looked in that jingling, twinkling getup.